


Pearls After Swine

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fic Exchange, HP: EWE, Humor, Magical Artifacts, Mystery, Partnership, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Spells & Enchantments, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione's got an exciting new lead for her book, an important project that could significantly advance her career in the Ministry's Department of Magical Artefacts.  She's been given the long-awaited green light to pursue that lead with some necessary research abroad.  Unfortunately, her plans hit an unexpected snag at the last minute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pagan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagan/gifts).



> Pagan, I hope you enjoy this! :-)
> 
> Thanks and big hugs to my patient, wise, sharp-eyed beta, bunney. What would I do without you, Krissy?

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=eilonwy5.png)

 

 

 

 

April 2009

 

 

He was doing it again, wasn’t he, lounging against the new girl’s desk, his tall, lean frame as graceful as a dancer’s. One hand rested lightly, carelessly, on the desk, his long fingers extended and softly drumming an idle pattern. His voice was low and sultry, his eyes only on her, and there was a roguish smile playing about his lips.

It was Wednesday. The girl had only worked in the Ministry’s Department of Magical Artefacts since Monday. However, it hadn’t taken Draco Malfoy long to spot a new quarry and move in for the kill. It was patently obvious to anyone with eyes in their head that she was already a goner. 

Hermione Granger pursed her lips and turned away, walking swiftly down the hall towards her office in the archives of the Documents Division. She could only just imagine the line of swill Malfoy was feeding that poor, hapless girl, probably regaling her with his latest adventures in the field where, as one of the department’s shining lights, he consistently managed to unearth one amazing treasure after another. Or so it seemed, from the way he so often boasted about his archaeological exploits. Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that he tended to gild the lily more than a bit. Whatever he said, though, the effect was invariably the same: huge, gaga eyes and rapt attention, followed by an immediate acceptance of the proposed lunch date. (Lunch was always first, followed by after-work drinks, and if that went as planned, a dinner date would be suggested. It wasn’t difficult to work out what the after-dinner scenario would be, if the flavour of the week passed muster. She knew – the entire department knew! – the routine that Malfoy followed religiously whenever he was on the pull.)

Arriving at her office, Hermione sighed as she reached for the doorknob. As she did so, another arm shot past her own, grazing hers lightly, a palm resting on the door just above her head.

“Miss me, did you?” The voice was silken and supremely self-assured.

Turning her head, she looked over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised. Malfoy was standing there, an insouciant grin on his face. 

“Oh, were you gone? I hadn’t noticed.” The smile she gave him was cool and contained. “Do excuse me, Malfoy. Some of us actually have work to do.”

Pushing the door open, she sailed into her office, kicking it shut behind her. Hopefully, right in Malfoy’s smug face. That should give him the message.

Shaking her head, Hermione settled herself at her desk and pulled out a thick book cataloguing historically and magically important documents unearthed in the last five years and added to the Ministry’s collections. Five seconds passed, and then, in spite of herself, she raised her eyes just enough to glance at the frosted glass of the door. The darkened outline of a tall male body was still there, though she couldn’t tell if he were still facing her door. And then, as she watched, the shadowy figure moved slowly away. 

Good. Peace and quiet at last.

 

 

*

 

 

Algernon Parsifal sat at his desk, drumming his fingers nervously on the blotter. This job was beginning to cause his nerve endings to fray. Fifty-six years old and he was still in the same Ministry post that he’d held for the past twenty-five years. And what was worse, he’d been passed over countless times when positions had opened up in the higher echelons of his own department as well as the Ministry at large. “You’ve no ambition at all, Algernon,” his wife constantly carped at him, and in his darker, firewhisky-fuelled moments, he supposed she was right. He ought to have been made department director long ago, but no. That position had gone to the spineless, arse-kissing turd whose father just happened to have come up through the Ministry’s ranks and evidently still held some sway with the Minister of Magic. Obsequious, pontificating little ginger snotnose, he was. Even his name sounded precious. _Percy._

And now Weasley Junior was throwing his weight around as if he were the bloody Minister himself. Probably had his beady little eye on that position as well. The line of arses between his office and the top man’s upstairs was long, but no doubt Percy Weasley was ready to suck up to every last one of them. 

In so doing, he was making Algernon’s life at the Ministry a miserable and utterly thankless experience. The only thing that the little git was interested in was scoring points by making headlines. True, Magical Artefacts did occasionally have some genuinely spectacular finds to report, truly astounding objects that not only made the professional journals but also the headlines of the more mundane Daily Prophet. Or at least page three, anyway. Algernon had always been quite satisfied with page three whenever his department’s activities happened to make the news. Not too flashy, but then, the business of digging up old things was never meant to be. But since the second war, over now these eleven years, the Ministry had wanted to remake itself in the wizarding public’s eyes, change the popular impression that it was a corrupt, hidebound, bureaucratic mess. The word had come down from on high that there was to be a sea change. The Ministry of Magic would reinvent itself, becoming a vital, muscular government organ that would energetically embrace reform while still honouring and celebrating the oldest wizarding traditions.

To that end, Percy Weasley had informed him two years earlier, the Department of Magical Artefacts would need to redouble its efforts to produce tangible, newsworthy evidence of its work in research and acquisitions. Splashy, eye-catching photos and articles every once in a while would make their work seem, well… _sexy_. That was how Draco Malfoy had characterised it, snorting derisively following a staff meeting in which this shift in policy had first been explained.

The pressure was still on, and Algernon Parsifal didn’t like it any better now than he had done back then. He hoped that the assignment he was about to hand the Granger girl would shut Weasley up, for a while at least. With a grunt, he set his cigar into a corner of the large glass ashtray just as a crisp knock sounded at his door.

“Come!” he barked, his foul mood clinging to him like the thick, grey halo of cigar smoke that now encircled his head.

The door opened and Hermione took a step inside, immediately waving a hand in front of her face and wrinkling her nose in distaste. Her boss was a decent enough chap, fair and even-handed for the most part and certainly knowledgeable enough, even though he could be a bit rough about the edges at times. But he did have certain personal habits she found completely repellent, and his penchant for large, smelly Cuban cigars was one of them.

“Excuse me, sir,” she began. “You wanted to see me?”

Parsifal waved her into the small office tiredly, gesturing to the chair nearest his desk.

Hermione seated herself, giving her boss an expectant smile.

“Indeed, yes.” He cleared his throat noisily and then rocked back in his chair, tapping the tips of his fingers together. “Tell me, Ms. Granger, how is that project going, the one you’ve been working on lately? Any progress?” 

Hermione nodded brightly. “Oh yes, sir, it’s going swimmingly. I’ve got a good bit of the first draft done already. I was hoping to–”

“Yes, yes…” Parsifal waved a hand impatiently. “Jolly good. Look, how soon can you be packed? I’ve arranged for a Portkey.”

Hermione fell back in her chair, her eyes opening very wide. For several seconds, she merely gaped at her boss. “Where to?” she finally managed to squeak.

“Greece, of course. You’ve only been at me for the past two months to let you do some research in the field. Now’s your chance, eh?” Parsifal smiled at her and gestured expansively, loose ash from his cigar dropping in a small shower of grey flakes onto his shirtfront and peppering his lukewarm tea.

Hermione stared at her boss, momentarily dumbstruck. And then a wide smile lit up her face. This was the news she’d been waiting and hoping for. 

“Oh gosh! Really? Thanks, Mr. Parsifal! I’ll just get some notes together, and then I’ll go home and pack straightaway. When is the Portkey for?”

Algernon Parsifal slid open the narrow drawer that his rotund belly had been butting up against a moment earlier, withdrawing a small, bronze object resembling a sort of horse shoe. He handed it to her, smiling pleasantly. 

“There you are. It’s set for departure at ten o’clock tomorrow morning and will take you directly to a small B&B in the wizarding sector of Athens. You’re expected.”

Turning the object over in her hands, Hermione recognised it as “Omega,” the final letter in the Greek alphabet. The end, the last stage of something. Interesting choice for a Portkey. Fortunately, she wasn’t superstitious, or this particular symbol might seem to bode ill for the project’s outcome. Then again, perhaps the symbol presaged a successful conclusion for the project as a whole. Auspicious, not ominous, she decided.

“Right. I’ll be ready. But you know,” she added, considering, “I’ll need somebody who’s familiar with really ancient documents from the region to go along with me. I was thinking of–”

“Done,” Parsifal interrupted briskly. “I’ve already made the assignment. Your partner should be along shortly. I’ve filled him in and he’s quite keen.”

This was dismaying news. Hermione had had every facet of the project planned right from the off, including the choice of colleague she’d hoped would be collaborating with her. Losing even a modicum of control was troubling. She hoped it wouldn’t presage future inroads into her autonomy. 

“Who is it?” She held her breath just a little, waiting and trying to read her boss’ face. Unfortunately, his expression remained impassive.

“Prewett. He’s got the background you’re looking for and no family obligations keeping him from leaving the country for a while. Acceptable?” There was a twinkle in Parsifal’s eye now as he waited for her reaction.

Conrad Prewett. Not her first choice, but not a bad choice either, all things considered. He was certainly sufficiently well trained and experienced in their shared field and would be more than competent to assist her in deciphering whatever documents they might uncover in their research efforts. Yes, Conrad would do.

“Yes, all right.” Hermione smiled, nodding, and stood to leave. “Thanks again, sir. I’ll be in touch by Floo whilst I’m away.”

Parsifal retrieved what was left of his cigar, just a near-dead stump at this point, and relit it, puffing happily for a long moment. Then he smiled, wisps of smoke escaping his mouth in small bursts. “See that you are, Ms. Granger. I shall expect regular progress reports. Off you go, then.”

With a final nod, Hermione exited the office, hurrying to her own much smaller one with her mind racing at a million miles an hour. So much to do and precious little time to get it all done!

Prewett was waiting outside her office door when she arrived. A slight, fastidious man in his mid-thirties, with wavy, fair hair cut very short and a noticeably receding hairline, he fiddled with his bowtie with an embarrassed smile as she approached. 

Tapping her wand against the lock, Hermione muttered a quick “ _Alohomora_ ” and then returned his smile. “Come in. I hear we’re going to be working together.” She pushed the door open, gesturing for him to take a seat in the spare, modest office.

“I gather you know what I’ve been working on,” she continued, seating herself at the desk. 

“Well, yes, the basics anyway,” Conrad replied, pushing at the bridge of eyeglasses that persisted in sliding down his nose. “You’re writing a study of historically important witches or wizards, in hopes of proving their existence by way of solid archaeological evidence. In other words, the real, flesh-and-blood people behind the legends and myths. Is that right?” 

“Essentially, yes.” Hermione nodded, pulling out a sheaf of papers from a drawer and laying them on the desk space between her and Conrad. “Here’s what I’ve got so far. It’s a copy; you can take it and look it over tonight. Probably a good idea, as we’re leaving tomorrow. Did Parsifal give you a Portkey as well?”

“No,” Conrad said as he reached out to take the papers from Hermione. “I’m to meet you at your flat tomorrow morning. I’ll be there at nine-thirty, if that’s not too early. Why Greece, by the way?” 

Hermione sat back in her chair, regarding Conrad thoughtfully. “Word has it that a document has surfaced in Greece providing irrefutable proof of the existence of Circe more than three thousand years ago. I have a contact at the National Archaeological Museum in Athens. Supposedly, he can tell me more. I don’t know, though…” She sighed deeply. “I’m not sure how far I can trust what he might say. He’s a wizard working undercover at the museum. But he’s been living as a Muggle for quite a long time.”

Abruptly, Conrad stood, hefting the folder packed with papers. “Divided loyalties, eh? We shall soon have him sorted, I daresay. Well…” He held out a formal hand to her. “I’ll take my leave, if I may. Good evening, Hermione.” 

“Bye,” she murmured, watching him disappear as the door clicked shut behind him. Well, she supposed it wouldn’t be too bad working with Prewett. Not terribly imaginative, a bit stiff and fussy, but he was thorough, and he did know his stuff. At the very least, there wasn’t really anything he could do to _hurt_ the project. 

Standing and stretching, she rolled one shoulder and then the other, feeling tired and a good deal older than her twenty-nine years. It would be good to get home and relax with a large mug of hot, sweet tea while going over her notes. Then she remembered where she would be and what she would likely be doing in a mere twenty-four hours, and a small thrill of excitement shot through her.

Feeling suddenly revitalised, she grabbed her briefcase and left her office, walked swiftly down the hall towards the lifts. Lounging against the wall there was Draco Malfoy, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. Long, fair hair brushed the shoulders of his impeccably tailored suit jacket, a vague suggestion of dark-blond stubble shadowing his jaw, upper lip and chin. He watched as she approached, a lazy half-smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

“Well, well,” he drawled, reaching up to loosen his tie in a carelessly rakish gesture. “Hail and farewell, is it? Off to sunny Greece, I hear.”

Hermione barely managed not to roll her eyes. “Yes, I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Bit early for swimming still, or I’d remind you to take your bikini. If you’ve got one, that is. Or perhaps…” Draco’s gaze was hooded now, his smile wickedly suggestive. “… you prefer the nude beaches?”

Ugh, leave it to Malfoy. The man was pathologically incapable of having a civil conversation with a woman – _any_ woman – without making it about sex. Or more likely, since she certainly wasn’t one of the tall, leggy types with big tits that he seemed to prefer, he was simply making a rather mean and tasteless joke. 

Hermione’s answering smile was chilly. “However did you guess? Going _au naturel_ is so much friendlier and more enlightened, don’t you agree?” 

Just then, the doors to the lift opened and she ran past him, pressing the “down” button before he had a chance to make a move.

“Cheers, Malfoy!” she called, laughing as the lift doors slid shut on the fleeting expression of his surprise. “I’ll send you a postcard.”

 

 

*

 

 

Rushing about her flat in a frenzy of last-minute nerves as she ticked off items on a mental to-do list, Hermione was momentarily startled when the front-door buzzer sounded, loud and insistent, at eight minutes before ten. She’d been on edge, wondering where Conrad was, and now she breathed a sigh of relief, although it really wasn’t like Conrad to be late. Recovering herself, she hurried to the door and pulled it open.

“Conrad! Hi…” she began excitedly and then the words died in her throat.

Standing there grinning smugly, a well-travelled canvas suitcase in his hand, was the furthest person from Conrad Prewett that Hermione could have imagined.

“ _You!_ What are _you_ doing here?”

“Oh, come now,” Draco tutted. “Surely you don’t expect me to believe that you’d rather take that old stuffed shirt Prewett along on this little junket of yours!”

“As a matter of fact,” Hermione puffed, attempting unsuccessfully to shove him back out into the hallway, “I would! And you haven’t answered my question. Why are you here and what have you done with Conrad?”

“I haven’t done anything with him. Just what are you insinuating, Granger?” Miffed, Draco gazed down at Hermione and shook his head ruefully. “No trust whatsoever. It’s really sad. As a matter of fact, I got a Floo call late last night from Parsifal. Seems that tosser Prewett broke his ankle tripping over his cat in the dark. Parsifal asked if I could take his place, and fortunately for you, I am free and completely at your disposal. There now, you see?” he crooned. “Aren’t you ashamed of doubting me?” 

“Not in the least!” Hermione muttered, turning her back and heading towards her fireplace. “I shall speak to Parsifal right now and see what can be done about this!”

In a single, long stride, Draco was standing before the hearth, blocking her way. “No. Sorry. Can’t be done. Parsifal is, uh… he’s in a meeting this morning. With the Minister and the rest of those idiots on the first floor. Very hush hush. Mentioned it last night.”

Hermione shot him a dark look. “The idiots who pay our salaries, you mean.” She stepped to the side in an attempt to get around Draco. “Well, I shall just have to interrupt his meeting, then, shan’t I? Because if there’s one thing I am not doing, it’s sharing the fruits of all my hard work with a vain, glory-seeking, high-handed prat like _you_. Move!”

Horribly frustrated, she tried to get around him once again, but he was quicker. And then he tapped his wristwatch with an annoying little grin.

“Reckon you’re stuck with me, darling. Note the time. I’d grab that Portkey if I were you!”

9:59 AM. Her heart in her throat suddenly, Hermione made a flying lunge for her suitcase and the Portkey, grabbing both just as the familiar and rather disconcerting sensation of being turned inside out hit. She hadn’t even noticed that Draco had swiftly looped his arm through hers in the last few seconds, neatly snagging the Portkey with his other hand.


	2. Chapter 2

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=eilonwy3.png)

 

 

 

 

Athens. A beautiful city, but never more so than in the spring, when wildflowers carpeted the ancient hills surrounding its winding streets and old, white buildings. 

It was in one of the very oldest neighbourhoods of Athens that Hermione found herself, still arm-in-arm with Draco, when they regained their equilibrium. They were standing in the centre of a series of narrow, steep steps that wound past small houses also of stone, stacked higgledy-piggledy on top of and alongside each other, each with colourfully painted wooden window shutters and front doors. Pots of richly blooming flowers lined the steps and graced the doorway of every house. The shutters were closed against the warm midday sun, and nobody, save a small black and white cat who was meticulously grooming herself, seemed to be about.

“Parsifal said the Portkey would take me to the wizarding sector of Athens. This must be it, I suppose,” Hermione murmured, quickly sliding her arm out of Draco’s and looking around. A small sign neatly lettered in both Greek and English on a blue door nearby read “Mme. Adrasteia. Rooms to Let.”

“Yes,” Draco replied. “This is Anafiotika.” He looked at her closely, then stepped back, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Have you never been to Greece before?”

She shook her head, shrugged, and then glanced up, sucking in an astonished breath. At the top of a broad, flat hill, seeming to tower to the heavens, was the Acropolis. 

“Not very well travelled, are you? Well, then, you’re lucky I’ve come along. Been here dozens of times. I know this city inside and out.” He reached out, taking her arm firmly by the elbow. “Come on, Granger,” he chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “Put your eyeballs back in your head and follow me.”

“But… but Parsifal said–” Hermione sputtered, looking back over her shoulder at the small rooming house from which Draco was firmly propelling her away and then up at the magnificent ruins once again. 

“Never mind Parsifal,” he told her. “Trust me on this. You won’t be sorry.”

 

 

*

 

 

A quick walk led them into the Plaka, an area that was quite old and just as quaintly appealing as Anafiotika had been, but in which the buildings were a bit larger and more regularly spaced on the winding streets. Small shops selling wares of all sorts, galleries with outdoor displays of paintings, sculptures and art objects to entice passers-by, cafés, lively bars and cosy restaurants – all clamoured for Hermione’s attention as Draco purposefully steered her along the narrow streets.

Before long, he turned them into a street whose length appeared, on one side, to be predominated by a high stone wall covered in ivy, with an ornately carved wooden door in the centre. The wall was very old, as evidenced by the amount of peeling and cracks in its surface, but somehow, this only added to its charm. Large, ceramic pots of colourful flowers lined the wall in clusters, and an orange tree in full flower rose, lush and fragrant, to the right of the door.

“Here we are, then,” Draco announced with a cocky smile. 

Hermione studied the property for a moment and then looked questioningly at him. “What is this place? Where are we?”

“Patience,” he instructed, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Come along, Granger. It’s rude to keep one’s hosts waiting.”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but before she had a chance to frame a question, Draco had her by the arm again and was propelling her along. A few whispered words of an incantation unfamiliar to Hermione and the wrought-iron lock in the wooden door disengaged. One push and the door itself swung inward onto a lush garden filled with bright blooms and carefully manicured topiary trees and shrubs. 

“Oh!” she gasped, unable to contain herself. “Malfoy, what–”

A mysterious finger to his lips and a shake of his head were all the reply she got. She followed him along the narrow garden path, past stands of trees and shrubs, until the walkway suddenly opened onto the vista of a rather imposing, rose pink stucco mansion, hitherto obscured by the dense foliage. Floor-to-ceiling windows were framed by white columns, most of them opening out onto wrought-iron balconies on which pots of flowering plants blossomed, their vines spilling over in gracefully trailing tendrils. 

Hermione’s mouth must have dropped open once again, because Draco chuckled softly. “Grand, isn’t it? Come on. We’re expected.” 

The ornate door knocker in the shape of a brass lion’s head, plied discreetly three times, brought a swift response from inside the house. The door opened and there stood a tiny house-elf. He bowed once and then ushered the two of them inside the foyer, all cool marble and twinkling with lit candles.

“Master will be with you shortly,” the house-elf said in heavily accented English. He bowed again and respectfully took his leave.

“A house-elf? Okay, Malfoy, spill! Where on earth have you brought me? What is this place?” Hermione demanded. She was certain that this house had not been in Parsifal’s plan for her trip. She thought back to Mme. Adrasteia’s rather more humble establishment and cringed, imagining what Parsifal would say when he found out about this.

It was as if Draco had read her thoughts, for he smiled reassuringly, and Hermione wondered, not for the first time, just how transparent she must appear around other people. Apparently, he could read her all too easily. 

“If it’s our expense account you’re worried about,” he told her, “you needn’t. This house belongs to friends of my family. I’ve known them for years, really, since I was a little boy.”

“So… we’re still in the wizarding sector, then?”

“On the outer fringes, yes. The house and grounds belong to the Papadakos family. A noble, ancient lineage. Their bloodlines go back centuries.”

 _What a surprise._ Hermione sighed lightly, rolling her eyes.

Draco appeared not to have noticed. “Andreas Papadakos is a friend of my father’s,” he continued. “Businessman, very influential, lots of connections in the Greek Ministry. I’ve been their guest on a number of occasions in the last few years, in addition to visits with my parents when I was a boy. When Parsifal asked me to fill in for Prewett, I sent an owl to Andreas. He very graciously invited us to be his guests for the duration of our time in Athens. So, Granger…” He gave her a teasing smile. “Think you can stand a bit of unparalleled luxury for a few days? Or would you rather stay in Mme. Adrasteis’ delightfully modest little hovel?” 

Before she could reply, a voice came from behind them. They turned to find a short, rotund, swarthy man with a large white moustache and dark, expressive eyes descending the ornate marble staircase, a pleased smile on his face and his arms open wide.

“ _Empros!_ Welcome! My dear Draco, it is so good to see you again. It has been far too long, I think!”

“Agreed.” Draco smiled, and the two men embraced each other warmly. “How is Madam Papadakos? And your lovely daughter Galina?”

Andreas released Draco and stood back, holding him at arm’s length and scrutinising him. “My wife and daughter are very well. It is kind of you to inquire. Galina will be especially pleased that you are here, I have no doubt.” He winked conspiratorially at Draco and then turned towards Hermione. “Ah! And who is this beautiful young woman?”

“This is Hermione Granger. She is a colleague of mine. As I explained in my letter, we are working together on a research project of great importance for the Ministry.” 

_Of course. I knew it. He’s taking equal credit for **my** project._ Swallowing her annoyance, Hermione smiled cordially and held out her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Papadakos. Thank you so much for extending your hospitality to us whilst we’re in Athens.”

Andreas Papadakos turned a charming smile on Hermione, taking her hand with a flourish and kissing it lightly. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Granger.” He turned to Draco. “Such a lovely ‘colleague,’ Draco. It must be delightful to have such attractive and, I am sure, convivial companionship when one is engaged in professional pursuits, is it not?” 

Hermione could not fail to notice the sly smile and wink he gave Draco then. What was more striking, however, was the fact that Draco’s answering smile was equally roguish and remarkably – ridiculously – self-assured in the face of Papadakos’ obvious insinuation. “Colleague” indeed. Had she imagined that insinuation, or had Draco had the nerve to suggest in his communication with their host that she was really only window dressing, along for the ride merely as his bed companion? If so, she would be sure to leave no uncertainty about that particular misimpression. 

And as for the rest, well… whatever he thought he would achieve by managing to get himself hired on for this venture, he would find that he had another think coming. There would be no grandstanding, no spectacularly sexy finds that he could crow about in front of prospective female conquests as if he alone had engineered the entire project and uncovered them. And most of all, no stealing her thunder in order to advance up the professional ladder. 

Hah. Over her dead body.

She would, of course, be pleasant and agreeable around their host. After all, he had been gracious enough to open his magnificent home to a total stranger on the strength of his long-time relationship with the Malfoys. She would not embarrass Draco in any way while under the Papadakoses’ roof. But he had better be on his guard. She would certainly be on hers.

In the meantime, their bags had been whisked away by the house-elf, and now Hermione found herself trailing behind Draco as they followed the house-elf up the staircase and down a long corridor, lit by the flickering lights of many gilded candelabrum. 

The tiny house-elf stopped, finally, and pushed the door to one of the bedrooms open, inclining his head deferentially and gesturing for the two of them to step inside. Both her bag and his were already there, side by side.

“Malfoy, what on earth!” Hermione hissed. There was no way she would entertain the notion of sharing a room with Draco Malfoy, no matter what he might have implied in his letter to Andreas Papadakos. 

Draco shrugged innocently. “I really can’t imagine why our bags were put in the same room, but I shall see that it’s rectified straightaway. Would you like this room or shall I arrange for another?”

Hermione expelled a tense breath and looked around. The room was spacious and decorated in restful coral and cream hues, with French doors that opened onto a balcony. Those doors were open now, and in the distance, the Acropolis rose like a living vision from the ancient myths she’d always loved. In the room’s centre was a king-sized, lavishly appointed four-poster bed dressed with silken, gauzy hangings that dipped and flowed gracefully from each corner. It was a marriage bed fit for the gods, lushly seductive, something out of a fairy tale romance. 

Hermione barely managed to hold back a snort at that thought. That was about the furthest thing from the truth where she and Malfoy were concerned. And if he expected that she was gullible enough to really believe that rubbish he’d just spouted, he would soon learn otherwise. It was clear that he was out to get whatever he could from this situation, including – incredibly! – Hermione herself, if she allowed it. 

Fat chance.

Now she turned a sweet smile in his direction. “Oh, I think you should keep this room, Malfoy. Somehow, it suits you. It’s a bit rich for my blood, though. I’ll take another room, something a bit less… dramatic.” _Any other room. Even a broom cupboard._

Draco raised an eyebrow with a tiny, enigmatic half-smile. That little smile spoke volumes to Hermione. She’d thrown down the gauntlet, it said; challenge accepted. In trying to nip things firmly in the bud, she’d somehow upped the ante and encouraged the chase. She could see it in his eyes. He’d always liked a challenge, she knew that, but she’d never fancied herself the quarry before. Even now, a large part of her scoffed at the very idea that Draco Malfoy would be pursuing _her_ , of all people. 

‘Focus, Hermione,’ she told herself. ‘Remember the reason you’re here.’

 

 

*

 

 

The room she was eventually given turned out to be one that adjoined Draco’s, via a shared bathroom. He explained that according to their host, the other guest bedrooms were in the process of being redecorated and currently unfit for use. All of this was a bit too convenient to be truly credible, but at least she did have her own private space now, and that was what mattered most, she supposed. No doubt they could work out a bathroom schedule that would ensure respect for each other’s privacy. They were both adult enough to manage that, surely.

She had only just got herself settled comfortably when there was a discreet knock at the door. Opening it, she found Draco lounging in the doorway, a lightweight sport jacket slung over one shoulder. 

“Hungry?” he grinned. “Because I’m famished.”

She was at that, now that she thought about it, not having bothered with anything more substantial than tea and toast hastily bolted as she’d busied herself with last-minute packing. And that had been hours ago.

She had barely time enough to nod before he’d reached out and grabbed her hand. 

“Come on,” he told her, hustling her in the direction of the long staircase. “Surely there’s time enough for lunch before we stick our noses to the grindstone. And I know just the place. Andreas expects that we’ll join him and his family for dinner tonight, but that leaves us the whole afternoon.”

And so, just a few minutes later, Hermione found herself walking along narrow, cobbled streets, alternately sun-drenched and then cast in deep, cool shade. She really was hungry, but beyond a desire for food, she found herself utterly captivated by everything around her: the colour and explosive life of the ancient city crowding and jostling her, its cobbled lanes underfoot, so full of its own stories. The cacophony of this thriving, old metropolis was its own beautiful and unique music. Everything in her thirsted for answers to the many questions that clamoured for them. 

As they walked, Draco watched her, quiet amusement crinkling his grey eyes. He remained largely silent until they reached a lovely, flower-filled square with benches on which to sit and enjoy the view, as well as a variety of cafés and restaurants. 

“Here we are,” he announced, drawing Hermione to one café in particular and claiming seats for them at a table facing the square.

“Filomousa Café,” she read aloud from a small, laminated menu card that was propped up against a ceramic vase filled with freshly picked wildflowers.

“Mmm.” Draco nodded. “Actually, the café consists of this whole building–” he swept a hand toward the 19th-century townhouse just behind them – “but I thought you might rather sit outdoors, since the weather is so good. More interesting, anyway. I like to people-watch.”

“So do I!” Hermione rejoined enthusiastically, and then she stopped. It wouldn’t do to become too friendly with Malfoy. Obviously, he was trying out his well-publicised charms on her, and for a couple of pretty underhanded reasons: just possibly to get into her knickers, though she doubted he had any serious desire to do that, and far more probably, as a way to ingratiate himself with her so as to take over the project and garner a good deal of the credit for it. Either way, though, it was clear that he wanted _something_ from her, and that was enough of a red flag to keep her wary, at the very least.

“Yes,” she continued a bit stiffly, “well… it’s very nice. Thanks for bringing me here. Let’s make this a working lunch. We really oughtn’t waste time having fun. We’re not tourists, after all.”

“No, certainly not. No fun on the menu for us. Can’t have that, nope!” Draco muttered, his mouth twitching with barely suppressed laughter.

“Stop it, Malfoy!” Hermione was beginning to feel more than a little irritated. She was hungry, she was tired, she really did not enjoy being teased in the best of circumstances, and right now, she was in no mood for his juvenile sense of humour. “Look,” she said with a weary sigh, “I’m stuck with you on this trip and there’s nothing I can do about that. But let’s get something very clear, all right? This is _my_ project and _I_ call the shots. Period. This is not a holiday we’re on. This is _work._ What we do here could be the basis for a significant portion of my book. I don’t have time to waste. So let’s both just do our jobs, shall we? Can you manage that?” 

She gazed at him, unaccountably impatient and annoyed suddenly – mostly at Parsifal, for foisting Draco Malfoy on her at the last minute, considering she would rather have gone alone than taken him along – but also at herself, for relenting and allowing this unwelcome turn of events. Being forced to make the best of a bad situation wasn’t much fun, but at least she would do it on _her_ terms. 

Draco had sat back, surprised, during her sudden outburst, and now he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whatever you say, Granger. ” A small muscle pulsed in his jaw, and he actually looked… deflated. “So sorry to have got us off on the wrong foot. I didn’t see the harm in combining business with a little pleasure, but I realise now that I was being presumptuous. This is entirely your show. Apologies.”

Almost immediately, Hermione felt a small pang of guilt. She hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. 

“Look…” she began, feeling a bit flustered suddenly. “I’m just… I didn’t mean… well, I didn’t mean to over-react. I’m just a bit tired, I suppose, and very anxious to get started. This is… this is a lovely place. Let’s have lunch and I’ll fill you in on the project.” She gave him a tiny, contrite smile and he nodded, a corner of his mouth turning up wryly. She could see the beginning of the return of his naturally high spirits.

Their lunch arrived shortly afterwards, selected and ordered by Draco, whose fluent command of Greek was both impressive and something of a surprise. Perhaps he might just come in useful on this trip after all, Hermione found herself thinking as he rattled off their choices to the waitress, who appeared to be equally impressed and rather taken with him as well, if her blushes and flirtatious glances were anything to judge by. 

When the large platter arrived, it was ringed with crisp pita points and filled with a variety of delicious spreads, all of which Draco was quick to identify and describe.

“Babaganoush—that’s the green stuff there. It’s eggplant and herbs, mixed with olive oil.”

“What’s the pink stuff?”

“That’s Taramosalata. It’s red caviar that’s been blended with olive oil and lemon. It’s delicious. Well, all of this stuff is, really. You’ll see. This, for instance.” He pointed to a creamy dip with bits of green in it. “This is Tzatziki. Yoghurt, cucumber, and garlic. Try some.”

Dipping a pita point into it, he held it out towards Hermione, who bit into the tip and chewed thoughtfully, then nodded and smiled. “Mmm. Good.”

“Try this one now. It’s called Ktipiti. Roasted peppers blended with feta. I think that one and the Taramosalata are my favourites.”

“And this last one?” Hermione pointed to a beige-coloured spread. “Hummus, right?”

Draco nodded. “Yes, right. Chickpeas mashed up with garlic, red peppers, olive oil, and some other things. We do have all this in the UK, of course, but it’s nothing like what you get here.”

There was a plate of stuffed grape leaves too, tender leaves filled with a savoury mixture of ground beef and rice, and to wash it all down, a very good wine. 

“I shall fall asleep!” Hermione protested feebly, but she allowed him to pour her a generous glassful nevertheless. ‘What the hell,’ a small, perverse voice in her head whispered. ‘It’s your first time in Greece. You’ve only been here a few hours. Enjoy yourself. There will be more than enough time for work.’

Making sure to take small sips of the wine along with frequent bites of her lunch, so as to avoid the possibility of a whopping great alcohol buzz, Hermione proceeded to describe the project.

“What I’m doing is rather ambitious, actually. I want to research the myths surrounding some of our world’s most celebrated practitioners, ones who lived hundreds, even thousands of years ago. Merlin, of course, and Nimue, Morgan Le Fay, Hecate, Simon Magus, John Dee, and Circe. Those are the ones I’m focusing on. I want to find out if they ever really lived, based on whatever archaeological evidence I can turn up. I think it’ll make for a fascinating study. I’ve been working on this for a couple of years now. It’s been rather slow going, but I am making progress.”

This was the first time she’d really spoken of her project to a colleague much beyond the odd reference, and it felt strangely good to share her hopes and ambitions. That she found herself feeling this way while talking to Malfoy about it was surprising and made it all the more odd, and yet she didn’t want to stop.

Draco had been listening thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair and taking slow, deliberate pulls of his wine. Now he nodded and sat forward, setting down his glass and resting his elbows on the tabletop.

“And… you’re here now because…?”

“Well,” she sighed, “Here’s the thing. Not too long ago, I got a lead about a document that has supposedly surfaced. It’s thought to be very old indeed, dating back roughly three thousand years, possibly written by Circe herself. That’s what I’ve come to investigate, principally. I want to examine the document myself, see what it shows me.”

Draco had perked up considerably in the last several minutes. “Where is it now? Who’s got it?”

“That’s just it.” Hermione frowned, taking a sip of her wine. “I’ve been told that it’s in the hands of a British expat curator at the National by the name of Porter Underwood. The Ministry grapevine says he is in fact a wizard, but that he’s been living undercover as a Muggle for a very long time. That said, nobody seems to know much about him. No idea if he can be trusted or what his agenda might actually be. I’ve been thinking he might actually have gone–”

“Rogue.” Draco nodded warily, one eyebrow raised and his mouth a thin line.

“Exactly. All we can do is go see him, find out what he’s really got.”

“If anything.” Draco’s placid expression belied the excitement and curiosity, laced with a healthy degree of scepticism, that she saw in his eyes. Such a response mirrored her own feelings precisely. 

“I assume you’ve been in touch with him?” he added, almost as an afterthought.

She shook her head, and he gave her a slow, rather devious grin.

“Wise move. I like it. Preserves the element of surprise. Much better that this Underwood chap isn’t forewarned.” Inclining his head, he raised his glass in a salute. “Well done.”

Despite herself, Hermione felt the beginnings of a pleased flush pinking her cheeks. “Thanks, Malfoy,” she said sardonically, hoping to camouflage her embarrassment. “So glad you approve. Look,” she hurried on briskly, “I think it’s important that we get to the museum as soon as possible. I’d suggest going now, but Underwood’s got early hours on Thursdays. Anyway, tomorrow morning will be time enough. It gives us all of this afternoon to go over my notes. We really should go back to the house now and get to work.”

Draco gave her a jaunty, little salute and neatly tossed back the remainder of his wine in a single swallow. “Lead on, Granger,” he replied, getting to his feet and offering her his arm. “I’m all yours.” 

Rolling her eyes with an amused huff, she waved away his chivalrous gesture, slinging her bag over one shoulder and shading her eyes against the strong mid-afternoon sun. The disappointment was still in his eyes as they walked back to Nikodimu Street.

 

 

*

 

 

Dinner that evening was an experience Hermione wouldn’t soon forget. There was Andreas, of course, ebullient and charming, generous with stories and jokes. His wife, a thin, dark woman, seemed shy, even a bit mousy, next to her extroverted husband. She had a kind smile, though, and was quietly gracious to both Hermione and Draco, whom she’d known since his early childhood and whom she regarded almost as a son.

Then there was their daughter. Galina Papadakos was twenty-one years old, a university student – and drop-dead gorgeous. Tall and slender, she had long, glossy, raven-black hair that matched dark, lustrous eyes, and her skin was milk-pale and smooth. And there was one other thing that Hermione could not fail to notice: Galina had an enormous crush on Draco.

And clearly, Draco was well aware of it. Throughout the evening, he smiled and joked with Galina, teasing her, ruffling her hair playfully, and accepting her many flirtatious, sloe-eyed glances, the innuendo and frequent, fond touches, with smiles of his own, banter and laughter. In fact, he seemed to be lapping it up, though ultimately, it was difficult to tell if he were merely flattered by the younger girl’s attentions or if he were genuinely interested in her. It was quite possible that he was, Hermione reasoned – after all, even though he’d known her since they were children, or rather, since she was an infant and he a boy of eight, she certainly wasn’t a baby anymore. She had grown into a strikingly beautiful young woman capable of turning many a head. She had her sights set on one blond head in particular, and he certainly wasn’t pushing her away.

Then again, this was Draco, after all. When had he _ever_ pushed an attractive woman away? The man was constitutionally incapable of it. ‘I mean, Merlin,’ Hermione found herself thinking. ‘He was even on the pull with _me._ What does _that_ say?’ He loved women, and flirting with them was like the very air he breathed. He couldn’t help himself.

No doubt the Papadakoses thought it all quite amusing. Their daughter’s longstanding crush on the young man who’d been like a big brother to her until she hit puberty was sweet and rather endearing, from their perspective. From where Hermione sat, however, the whole spectacle began to be rather sickening after a while.

Eventually, equal measures of fatigue and irritation began to take their toll on her. It had been a long day, her eyelids were drooping uncontrollably, and she found herself longing for bed and the oblivion of sleep. And quite frankly, she’d had all she could stomach of the umpteenth recounting of some childhood memory or privately shared joke or other that sent both Galina and Draco into gales of laughter, ending with the dark-haired girl falling against Draco and burying her face in his chest, her arms flung about his neck or his waist, or resting her head against his shoulder with a soft sigh. 

Pushing her chair away from the dining table, where they’d had a long, leisurely dinner accompanied by quite a lot of wine, she stood and delicately covered a yawn with her fingertips.

“Tonight has been lovely, really. You’ve made me feel so welcome. Thank you so much. But now I really must excuse myself. I’m afraid I can’t keep my eyes open!” Hermione gave everyone what she hoped was a gracious smile. “Goodnight, Mr. and Mrs. Papadakos… Galina…” Her gaze lingered on Draco for a moment longer. “Goodnight, Malfoy.” 

A short time later, she was in the midst of washing her face when there was a knock on the door that led from the bathroom into Draco’s room. She froze, her face covered in a creamy lather, her hair carelessly pulled up into a high ponytail atop her head and the old, oversized sleep tee that was rather too short making her bare legs feel terribly exposed, suddenly. 

“What is it?” she asked guardedly.

“Just checking on you, making sure you’re all right,” the reply came. “You had rather a lot of wine.”

“No more than you did. I appreciate the concern, Malfoy, but I’m just fine, thanks,” she called back with forced cheeriness, hoping he’d just go away.

He didn’t. She could hear his muffled movements quite close to the door.

“Is there something else I can do for you?” Hermione asked, hastily splashing water on her face and then towelling it dry as quickly as she could, leaving her cheeks quite rosy. She looked a fright, and in that moment, all she wanted was a quick, discreet escape from the bathroom.

“Need to come in for a moment. Left something in there.”

“Can’t it wait? I’ll be done in a minute!” Yanking the scrunchie out of her hair, she began brushing it frantically, forcing the hairbrush through curls that were obstinately rebellious in the humidity of the loo, post-shower.

And then the unthinkable happened. She realised, just as she saw the doorknob turning, that she’d neglected to lock both doors when she’d got into the shower earlier.

In the next moment, the upper half of Draco’s face appeared, peeking round the side of the door. 

“Ah. You’re decent, I see. Good. Just wanted to… uh… oh.” And then he fell silent, and Hermione felt his eyes moving from her unruly curls straight down the thin, too-short t-shirt to her very bare legs and back up again.

The door opened a bit wider.

“Fetching.” He grinned wickedly. “I like it. Though it appears you’ve forgotten the bottom half of your pyjamas. I can loan you a pair of mine if you like.” 

Feeling utterly naked while still being clothed was disconcerting, to say the least. Such was the effect of his cool, grey gaze as it swept over her, standing, hairbrush in hand, and feeling a fool. 

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” Hermione replied stiffly, her cheeks burning. Turning quickly, she made to exit the bathroom, not waiting for a response. 

His hand shot out and he grabbed her arm. “Wait. Don’t go. I really just wanted to… to ask if you’d enjoyed this evening.”

Hermione looked closely at him then. The teasing smirk was gone, and for once, he genuinely seemed interested in what she might have to say. 

“Well,” she began slowly, her embarrassment momentarily forgotten as she gathered her thoughts. “Yes, for the most part. Andreas and Eleni are lovely people, very generous and warm. And dinner was sensational.”

“Only ‘for the most part’?” 

Draco had been paying attention, it seemed. Now she was on the spot, which – now that she thought about it – was probably exactly where she wanted to be.

“Yes. I mean, _honestly_ , Malfoy. That girl was _all over_ you! She–”

“Galina,” he supplied helpfully. There was an impish glint in his eyes now. Clearly he was enjoying himself.

“Right. Yes. _Galina._ Forgive me. You’d think that her parents being right there at the table with us would’ve kept things a bit more… restrained. Apparently not, though. And I thought the girls at work were bad! Her behaviour was absolutely _disgusting!_ ”

The grin on his face grew wider, Hermione noted. He was looking positively cocky now.

“Disgusting, was it?” Smirking, he stood back and folded his arms across his chest. He seemed on the verge of laughing out loud. “What exactly did you find disgusting?” 

“The fact that you enjoyed every repulsive second of it, you arrogant, egotistical little wanker! Some things never change, do they!” Huffing in annoyance, Hermione crossed her own arms across her chest, unaware that in doing so, she’d hiked up her sleep tee even further, so that now, her bare thighs were on display, right up to the lacy edging of her knickers. 

Draco’s gaze dropped low for a long, pregnant moment and he licked his lips. Then his eyes travelled back up to her face, his expression coolly amused and, Hermione decided, insufferably smug. Obviously, she had just given his ego some serious stroking, not that it needed any further inflation, gargantuan as it already was.

“Oh, I don’t know… I think _some_ things can change quite a lot, given time and the right circumstances.” His tone was unhurried, almost desultory, and yet Hermione had the sense that he knew precisely what he meant by such a cryptic remark. His eyes remained on her, hooded now and very dark, and there was a tiny half-smile playing about his mouth. 

Damn the man. She had to get out of this bathroom _now_ , and make certain that their paths never again crossed there when either of them was undressed.

“You’re talking rubbish, Malfoy,” she said primly. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”

Draco watched her go, and as the door shut behind her, he turned to the mirror with a slow, enigmatic smile. His reflection nodded back at him and winked.


	3. Chapter 3

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=eilonwy5.png)

 

 

 

 

The National Archaeological Museum was a relatively short taxi ride from Nikodimu Street and the Papadakos mansion. Flooing or Apparating would have been faster, of course, but as this was a Muggle institution, there would not have been an exit point in the first scenario and the risks would have been too high in the second. A simple, old-fashioned taxi was their best and safest bet. And here, once again, as he had done at the café, Draco had smoothly stepped in to take care of the details, mentioning it as they were making their way down the long staircase prior to leaving.

They’d breakfasted early at Hermione’s request, the accommodating little house-elf very efficiently setting out platters of expertly made feta cheese omelettes and buttered toast, bowls of creamy yoghurt and fruit, and a steaming pot of the most fragrant coffee Hermione had ever smelled.

“Thank you, uh…” Hermione had begun with a smile, as he snapped his fingers, causing the silver coffee pot to hover above her cup and then pour out precisely the right amount of the dark, rich brew. 

“Nico,” the little house-elf had replied, with a deferential nod. “I is very pleased to serve you, Miss…”

“Hermione.” She had smiled at him and then glanced at Draco, who was shaking his head with an amused sigh. 

“I reckon you were right about some things never changing,” he’d teased, raising his own coffee cup to his lips. “Just don’t go getting any ideas about slipping him clothes, though. You’d break his little heart. He’s been with the Papadakos family since Andreas himself was a kid, and trust me, that was a long time ago!”

Hermione’s mouth had twisted wryly. “Very funny. I wouldn’t dream of it. Look, Malfoy,” she’d added, her smile fading. “About what’s going to happen today…”

“Or not.” Draco had pursed his lips, raising a sceptical brow. 

“Or not, yes. It all depends, doesn’t it, on just how much truth there is to the rumour. Honestly, I don’t know whether I hope there is any foundation to it or not. If there even is a document, it could very well be a fake.”

“Which– if this guy turns out to be less than reputable, if indeed he has gone rogue– he might try to palm off on us for a ridiculous price. No matter how good we are – and we _are_ – it’s still quite possible that we could be fooled. A really clever wizard could create a document that looks, even to the trained eye, absolutely authentic. It’s been known to happen.” Draco had drained his coffee cup, setting it back in its saucer with a small _clink._

Hermione had nodded gravely. She knew of two cases in the last six years alone, in which trained staffers in her department had been taken in completely, costing the Ministry a small fortune in phoney finds that had surfaced on the black market. She knew that Parsifal was desperate to score some very needed points with their department head, and both he and Percy Weasley were equally anxious to publicise a headline-grabbing find that would restore both the Ministry’s faith in the department’s viability and a lot of very necessary funding that had begun drying up. ‘ _Please_ let this be the real thing,’ she thought. That was critical.

Now, as they reached the bottom of the staircase, she cast a quick, doubtful glance at Draco, who was just ahead of her. 

“You sure about this, Malfoy? I’ve researched it, and I’ve a list of reputable drivers we could hire.”

“Trust me, Granger. We don’t need a car service. This bloke is the best, bar none,” he assured her, reaching for the ornate door knob. 

Hermione shrugged. “Okay, then, if you’re sure.” Malfoy’s apparent familiarity with Athens could certainly save her a lot of time and effort. It was just common sense to defer to his greater experience and knowledge, even if it would, in all likelihood, make his already big head even bigger.

As they exited the walled gate separating the house and grounds from the bustle and noise of the street, a late-model yellow Mercedes pulled up beside them, rolling to a stop. The driver, grey- haired and deeply tanned, stepped out and smiled genially.

“Mr. Malfoy! So nice to see you once again.”

Draco grinned and stepped forward, extending his hand to grasp the driver’s. “Hullo, George. You’re right on time. This is Miss Granger. Hermione… George Kokkotos, the best taxi driver in all of Greece.”

“How do you do, George?” Hermione stepped forward to shake the driver’s outstretched hand. 

“I’ve engaged George to drive us wherever we need to go whilst we’re here,” Draco continued, moving to the car as George opened the door for them. “He knows absolutely everything about this city. The whole country, in fact.”

“Thank you kindly.” George turned to his passengers, now comfortably seated in the back of the car, giving them a deferential smile. “Now – your first stop: the National Archaeological Museum, correct?” 

Hermione nodded avidly. “Yes, that’s right. Is it far?”

George shook his head. “No, not at all. Should take only fifteen minutes, maybe even less, if the traffic is not too heavy.” And with that, he edged the car smoothly away from the kerb and began to navigate the narrow streets of the Plaka.

“His English is impeccable!” Hermione whispered to Draco, leaning in close to his ear. He smelled rather nice, that close up – very clean, very masculine. She found herself taking in a deep, pleasurable whiff of his scent.

“He lived in America for many years. He had a restaurant in New York, I think.” 

Draco never turned his head, but Hermione could have sworn she heard a tiny smile in his quiet reply. Pulling back to look at his face in profile, there it was.

Blushing, she sat back quickly, training her eyes on the road unfolding straight ahead. Ancient buildings rose from the pavement in a crowded jumble and pedestrians meandered along, moving in and out of the shops. Small cars traversed the narrow streets in fits and starts as they attempted to pass each other, jockeying to move ahead. The scene unfolded before them like a colourful, ever-changing tapestry, as George skilfully manoeuvred the yellow Mercedes through the traffic.

The National Archaeological Museum, a grand, columned structure set well back from the street in a park-like enclosure, looked fully worthy of the many priceless antiquities it housed. Paved walkways on two sides of the well-tended lawns led to stone steps at the entrance. Turning off Patission Street into a smaller side street that was less congested, George pulled the car over, swivelling his head around to view his passengers in the back seat.

“Shall I wait? Or would you prefer that I come back for you later?” he asked politely. 

Draco turned to Hermione. “Your call,” he said with a quick shrug. 

She checked her watch. Nine-thirty. “We’ll need at least a couple of hours, maybe more,” she decided. “Let’s say… noon. That gives us loads of time. We can even walk around a bit, see the collections if we’ve time to spare. This is supposed to be a marvellous museum.”

“It is.” Draco nodded. “I know it like the back of my hand. I can show you round.” Flashing her a self-assured smile, he got out of the car and offered her his hand.

“How very fortunate for me,” Hermione muttered wryly, intending to accept his hand just long enough to exit the car. “Remind me to thank Parsifal next time I talk to him. I mean, gosh – my very own personal guide who speaks fluent Greek, has important and influential connections, manages to put a magnificent mansion at our disposal, knows all the best restaurants and hot spots, no doubt–”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he interjected, his grin cocky. “However did you guess?”

“– _and_ just happens to be a colleague and a brilliant archaeologist, all rolled into one.”

Draco’s hand was still wrapped around hers and his fingers tightened a little bit. “You think I’m brilliant, do you?” he asked quietly. There was just enough of a smile in his voice that it could pass as his usual banter, but somehow, there seemed to be something more.

Pulling her hand away, she gave an embarrassed little laugh, the sound of it slightly brittle even to her own ears. “Did I say that? I suppose I did. You are good, I’ll give you that.”

There was a pause.

“Gosh, thanks,” he said tersely. “Glad you’ve noticed.”

The conversation had taken an abrupt and rather strange turn in the last few minutes, and Hermione was suddenly very uncomfortable with where it had led them. She cleared her throat.

“Well, shall we go in, then? I do hope we find Underwood before he gets wind of us being here,” she said briskly, all business, setting off at a good clip without waiting to see if Draco were keeping pace with her. 

He remained quite noticeably silent until they reached the impressive entrance to the museum, at which point he reached past Hermione, pulling open the heavy glass doors and walking in ahead of her. Only once he was inside did he turn and catch the door just as it was closing on her, holding it open almost as an afterthought.

“Sorry,” he said mechanically. “That was thoughtless.”

Hermione, who had very nearly been hit in the nose by the door forcefully swinging backwards, merely nodded dubiously. He hadn’t seemed the least bit sorry. What on earth was wrong with him all of a sudden? He’d been so chipper earlier, thoroughly delighted with himself and his universe, and apparently quite eager to share a bit of that with her. Now he seemed in some sort of weird funk. Well, there was no room for self-indulgent behaviour here. They were _working_ , for Merlin’s sake, and time was money; he needed to grow up.

Sweeping past him, she strode ahead, her gait brisk. Almost imperceptibly, Draco’s mouth tightened as he watched her approach the reception desk, and then he shook it off and moved to join her.

“Hello,” she was saying as he halted alongside her. “I’m – or rather, _we’re_ – here to see Mr. Underwood. Would you please let him know that we’re here?”

The receptionist, an older, rather plain lady with iron-grey hair pulled into a severe chignon, had been smiling pleasantly. Now, the smile evaporated. 

“Wait one moment, please,” she told them in heavily accented English, pressing a button on her telephone and then speaking in rapid-fire Greek into the receiver.

Hermione and Draco glanced at each other, nonplussed, the previous few minutes forgotten. Shortly after that, a woman in a smart, tailored suit hurried over to the reception desk from a lift at the far end of the lobby. 

“Please,” she said, beckoning. “Follow me.”

She drew them into a small, private office in a corridor just off the lobby, inviting them to sit down in a pair of leather chairs that faced the desk. She seated herself behind the desk, leaning forward and lacing her fingers together on its glass top.

“I am Agneta Simonides, Director of Public Relations. Who are you?”

Neither Hermione nor Draco had been expecting such a blatant third degree. Startled into momentary silence, Hermione eventually found her voice. “My name is Hermione Granger and this is Draco Malfoy. We are amateur archaeologists from the UK. We’ve followed Mr. Underwood’s work for years through professional publications and really hoped to meet him, now that we’re in Greece.”

Convincing enough, she hoped. Apparently so, because the lines of tension in Ms. Simonides’ face began to relax gradually. 

“Regrettably, I must tell you…” she began, her words halting. 

“Tell us what?” Draco said quietly, his grey eyes narrowing. 

“Porter Underwood is dead.”

“ _What?_ ” The two young wizards gave voice to their surprise in a single, shared exclamation, and then Hermione dragged her chair a bit closer.

“He’s _dead?_ That’s dreadful! When did this happen? And… and how?”

“Regarding the manner of his death, I’m afraid that information is confidential, young lady. It’s a police matter now, and I’m not free to discuss the details. As to when… well… I can tell you this much: he was found dead in his office a week ago.”

Agneta Simonides sat back, tapping the tips of her fingers together and gazing thoughtfully at her two young visitors. She wondered what they were really after, and if the information she’d provided would satisfy them, given that it had been scant at best. But the manner of Underwood’s death was so bizarre that any details reaching the media would be disastrous for the museum. It was her job to make certain that this did not happen. This “amateur archaeologists” story of theirs seemed just a bit suspect. Far more likely that they were nosy reporters from a British newspaper.

“Well,” she said, rising from her chair with a too-ingratiating smile and holding out her hand. “I’m sorry we had to meet under such tragic circumstances. I hope you will enjoy your visit to my beautiful country despite this terrible incident. Please feel free to call upon me at any time if you have any further questions. I would be most happy to provide you with a private tour of our collections and assist you in any way that I am able. Good day.”

It was clear that they were getting the proverbial bum’s rush. Draco threw Hermione a glance fraught with the questions and doubts both of them were now feeling. She acknowledged it with a slight nod and then offered her hand to Ms. Simonides. 

“Thank you for your time,” she called over her shoulder as they were being ushered out the door. 

Out of earshot at last, Draco turned to Hermione, his expression grim. “I reckon she hasn’t got a clue who Underwood really was. We’ve got to find out what really happened to him. Bet you anything he left something important behind.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “I was thinking the same thing. We could Apparate into his office, of course. We’ll have to be really careful, though. I expect it’s been cordoned off and sealed, if there’s an ongoing police investigation. We can’t leave any incriminating evidence behind.”

Draco laughed darkly. “Hah. Reckon Parsifal would be dead chuffed, having to bail us out of a Muggle jail in Greece. He’d go spare.”

Such a scenario wasn’t to be borne. The mere thought sent a shudder through Hermione. “Come on, Malfoy,” she muttered, a legion of goose bumps prickling her scalp. “We’ve got a problem that needs sorting. I need some strong coffee!”

 

 

*

 

 

The coffee was hot, dark, and very strong indeed. Sitting under an umbrella at an outdoor café back in the Plaka, where George had deposited them a bit earlier, Hermione had eagerly accepted a cup of espresso from the waitress, taking a sip that had proven scorching. Her eyes opened very wide, and, fanning her mouth in distress, she gulped down some iced water from the glass that Draco had pushed towards her, his mouth twitching in amusement all the while. 

“Relax, Granger, no need to incinerate your tongue. Although I must confess, your haste with that espresso has bought me a few extra minutes of blissful silence on this lovely afternoon…”

Hermione sighed, wearily gazing up to the heavens with barely contained patience. “Really, Malfoy? You know, if the very sound of my voice is so annoying to you, I have to wonder at your eagerness to be a part of this project. I mean, honestly – why _are_ you here, anyway? Parsifal could have got somebody else. You didn’t have to accept.” 

Draco leaned back in the wicker chair, stretching with a relaxed, feline grace, and then folded his arms behind his head. “Well,” he mused, “that’s true, of course. But it didn’t seem terribly politic to turn our boss down flat. Got to think of my career, y’know. And besides…” There was a playful gleam in his eyes now. “A chance to be alone with you in such a romantic place? Couldn’t pass that up, now could I?”

For just a fraction of a second, Hermione felt a curious warmth blossoming in the centre of her chest and high on her cheeks, and then she looked at him. He was grinning crookedly; clearly, he had been having her on once again. 

She hated this, she really did – the uncanny ability he seemed to have to throw her off her guard. But it wasn’t anything new, Hermione realised; he’d been doing it for years, really, one way or another. He’d simply traded the deeper wounds of insulting daggers for incessant, teasing little pinprick jabs that left her feeling off balance, even confused. She couldn’t _read_ him the way she wanted to, that was the truly frustrating thing. 

And Hermione did not like enigmas. Nor did she particularly like being teased, as her natural gullibility tended to trip her up at first, making her feel foolish. 

“Oh, ha… very funny, Malfoy. I love you, too. Right, then. Enough arsing about. Let’s get down to business.”

Draco gave her a lazy salute and then threaded his arms across his chest. “I’m all ears, Great Leader. What d’you reckon at this point?”

Hermione remained silent for a moment, studying her coffee cup. 

“Well,” she reflected finally, “it seems to me that we’ve got to find a way into Underwood’s office. I don’t know if what we’re looking for – whatever _that_ is – will be there. But honestly, I can’t think where else to look.”

Draco sat forward, brow furrowed. “What about his flat, then?”

“Oh, right!” Hermione retorted. “Bad enough we’re considering breaking into his office. You want to add possible breaking and entering charges for his house as well?” 

Draco shrugged lightly, poker-faced. “Fuck, yeah. Why not? Might as well go for broke.”

There was a pregnant pause and then Hermione found herself laughing. “Tell you what, one criminal act at a time, okay?”

He allowed himself a private little grin and then his cool gaze met hers. “Right. So. What’ve you got in mind, then? Tonight?”

“Yes.” She nodded and leaned in towards him, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “I thought we could Apparate directly into his office sometime after closing, which is…”

“At three o’clock today. Ridiculous,” Draco muttered, tossing back the dregs of his coffee.

Three o’clock? Damn, she hadn’t realised. That would make things more than a bit tricky, to be sure. But it appeared that Malfoy was right there, anticipating her thoughts. He was even a step ahead.

“After dark is best,” he continued, Hermione nodding her acquiescence. “The security guards will be easier to get round then. There will be fewer of them and they won’t be at assigned posts like they are during the day. If we’re really quiet, we can be in and out before anybody’s the wiser.”

It seemed they had a plan. The hours that would have to be ticked off until they could enact it seemed endless suddenly. This realisation dawned on both of them at virtually the same moment.

Draco leaned forward, one tanned arm resting near Hermione’s on the table top. “What say,” he drawled, “we play tourist this afternoon? We’ve got the time, and anyway, there's really nothing else we can do until we check out Underwood's office." There was a teasing glint in his eyes now. "Come on, Granger. Live dangerously. Forget the no-fun rule just for today. I know what _I’d_ like to do.”

“Too early for the nude beaches, remember?” Hermione quipped without thinking, then blushed at her boldness.

Apparently, it surprised Draco too, because he snapped his gaze up to hers and then grinned wickedly.

“As undeniably enticing as that prospect is…” he sighed, moving closer and extending a finger to lightly skim her flesh. When she shivered but did not pull her arm away, he smiled to himself and did it again. “I’m afraid I’m not quite brave enough to face these temperatures completely starkers. I’ll take a rain check, though. If…” his voice had gone very soft now. “… you want to give me one.”

Well, now she was well and truly backed into a corner of her own making. Because he was doing it again, wasn’t he, this weird, incomprehensible flirting thing that turned her all fluttery and nervous inside…

Hermione thought fast. And came up with nothing more than a mouth that had fallen open slightly and a mind that had gone utterly blank.

“Because, you see,” he went on, his voice a whispery caress, “I can’t imagine anything I’d like more. Do you suppose you might enjoy that too? With me?”

His finger had continued its gentle, meandering journey along her forearm, pleasurably raising tiny goose bumps in its wake, and Hermione’s brain was now utterly fuddled.

 _YES!_ a voice in her brain replied with surprising enthusiasm, even as its more sensible twin was reminding her what a completely disastrous idea that would be. 

“Your bill, sir,” a voice interrupted, and Hermione looked up, pulse racing and cheeks on fire, to see the waiter standing expectantly next to Draco, a small tray in hand.

Smoothly and without missing a beat, Draco withdrew his hand and extracted his wallet, handing the waiter some cash with a nod and a quick, rather curt “ _Enta’ksi_.”

By the time the waiter left, Hermione had recovered her wits and, her heart beating normally once again, was busily gathering her things together. She was surprised to find Draco still looking vaguely irritated.

“Something wrong?” she asked, confused. 

“No,” he muttered. “It’s nothing. No worries,” he added, seeing the look of consternation still on her face. Then he gave her a small, oddly contrite grin. “Come on, then. We’ve hours to kill. Fancy poking about the Acropolis for a bit?” 

Hermione’s excited smile answered his question quite succinctly.

 

 

*

 

 

Having to drag herself away from the magnificent ancient ruins that truly were the crowned jewels of Athens would be difficult, but Hermione promised herself faithfully that she would return. After all, strictly from a professional standpoint, she could not afford to bypass one of the most famous ancient monuments in the world. Just now, though, it was enough to find herself walking amongst old stone structures that were easily thousands of years old. There were so many stories hidden in those stones. She could hear them calling to her.

It seemed that same siren song had ensnared Malfoy as well, judging by the way he was wandering about. It was clear that he was caught up in his own world, completely oblivious, now, to Hermione’s presence. Every once in a while, he would stop to run a hand delicately over the rough-hewn or polished surface of a carved structure or column, and then his eyes would cloud over and he was lost once again in whatever realm his imagination was taking him. Instinctively, Hermione knew not to bother him. She’d had more than her share of such intoxicating moments, and she understood all too well what a potent hold the ancient world exerted on those like herself – and Malfoy.

 _And Malfoy_. It was a revelation – a shock, actually – seeing firsthand that he was not merely the vainglorious, swaggering dilettante she had thought him, only in it for the glitter and sexy flash that his adventures on digs would cover him in.

Hermione watched him from a distance a while longer and then turned away, her thoughts a jumble. But there wasn’t really time to dwell on any of that now. Soon enough, George would be collecting them and driving them back to the museum, with a quick stop for a take-away _souvlaki_ , its tender, sizzling meat and vegetables to be wolfed down in the car along the way.

Five hours had passed since the museum’s official closing time and dusk had fallen, cloaking the building and its surrounding trees and shrubbery in a murky half-light. Security spotlights shone, stark white and blinding, from key corners of the building. Obscured by the deepening shadows of a large hemlock tree, Hermione and Draco waited.

“Right. I say we go now. No time like the present,” he whispered. 

Hermione had to agree. As many times as she’d found herself on the wrong side of school rules or later, wizarding laws, being in such a position had never really come easily to her. There was always the feeling that somebody was watching over her shoulder, just waiting to pounce and catch her out. She was a pragmatist, though, and sometimes, there just was nothing else for it but to do what had to be done. She’d come to the realisation long ago that in certain cases, the end did indeed justify the means. Just now, that end was making her horribly edgy.

“Yes,” she said, nodding fervently. “Let’s get this thing over with.”

As one, they linked hands.

“The three Ds, remember?” Draco said softly. “Destination…”

“Determination, and deliberation. I remember,” she replied, and he gave her hand a warm, answering squeeze.

Hermione glanced quickly at him in the dim light and saw that his eyes were closed. She did the same, feeling strangely comforted by the warmth and pressure of his hand in hers, even though her heart was pounding wildly.

A moment of terrifyingly pure concentration, and then they vanished.


	4. Chapter 4

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=eilonwy3.png)

 

 

 

 

Porter Underwood’s office was a mess.

The room was pitch-dark, the blinds tightly drawn. 

“ _Lumos,_ ” Hermione whispered, and a moment later, Draco echoed the spell, his own wand drawn. Their tips bloomed into halos of bright light, and at last, it was possible to really see where they were going. 

Desk drawers hung open, thrown into disarray by the police during their various searches. The desk chair had been dragged away from its usual spot and left, looking forlorn, by the window. But that wasn’t what arrested their attention now.

It was the chalked outline of a body. It had been lying at a peculiar, unnatural angle in the centre of the floor, the head turned to one side in profile. Limbs were twisted strangely, and it appeared that at the time of death, Underwood’s mouth had been wide open in a scream. But that wasn’t the strangest part.

“Malfoy, look!” Hermione hissed, and then words failed her completely. 

Draco had gone very quiet. He stared at the chalked outline, his mouth open slightly in a perfect expression of incredulity. 

“Shit… No wonder they want to keep this quiet,” he breathed, unable to drag his gaze away, the question congealing in his throat as he struggled to make sense of what he was looking at. “Right… okay… We’ve… we’ve got to figure out what the hell happened here. If that was Underwood…”

“I think it’s safe to assume it was,” Hermione interjected, still mesmerised by the chalk drawing. “But… but how did he get like that? Don’t you think it’s rather a strange coincidence, this… this _thing_?” She gestured vaguely at the chalk drawing.

“I expect we might get the answer to both those questions by actually finding whatever it is we came for.” 

“Reasonable, Malfoy, except for one small thing: we don’t _know_ for certain what it is we came for.”

“And when has that ever stopped you before?”

Hermione couldn’t help a tiny smile. “Touché. Well… why don’t we just start looking round, see what we come up with. Obviously, if there _is_ a parchment of great value and it’s still here in his office, he’ll have hidden it well. And if there’s anything else… I suppose we’ll just have to take that as it comes.”

Draco nodded briefly. “Right. I’ll start in this corner and work my way round clockwise. You work from the other end, and that way, we’ll cover the entire room twice.” At Hermione’s nod, he turned to begin his search, working quickly and silently.

Twenty minutes passed with almost no sound from either of them, just the flash of their wand lights scoring the darkness as they moved about. And then, suddenly, there was an intake of breath, a soft gasp.

Draco pivoted quickly, pointing his wand in the direction of the sound. “What is it?” he hissed. “Find something?”

Hermione was on her knees in a corner of the room behind the desk. Frantically, she gestured to Draco, who dropped to his own knees beside her, directing his wand light where she was pointing hers. She had pulled back a richly coloured Turkish rug; beneath it, there was an area of floor approximately one foot square, a small, metal loop in the centre. 

“ _Trap door_ ,” she mouthed. 

Draco’s eyes were bright in the white light from their wands, his face eerily lit from beneath. Without a word, he crouched next to the trap door, grasping the metal loop and pulling as hard as he could.

Nothing happened. 

He tried again, the strain causing a muscle in his jaw to jump, and this time, the trap door gave way just a little. There was a slight scraping noise and the door actually moved upwards a fraction of an inch. 

Once again, Draco tried, this time letting out a small grunt as he gritted his teeth and pulled with all his strength. This time, the door gave way completely, rising upwards with such force that Draco fell backwards, sitting down hard.

Swiftly, Hermione trained her wand towards the opening, and a moment later, Draco joined his wand light with hers. At first, there appeared to be nothing more than an empty opening in the floor, exposed beams from the ceiling beneath visible as well as a very narrow crawl space big enough only for rats or a small cat. Sections of the flooring had been meticulously cut away with a saw, that much was obvious. 

Draco and Hermione glanced at each other and then looked back at the hole. And then she bent closer, squinting as she tried to see if something might be hidden in some small niche that was obscured by the natural configuration of the flooring. 

She could see nothing and was about to say as much, when Draco reached past her, sticking his hand into the hole. For close to a minute, he fished around, thrusting his arm as deep into the hole as it would fit and then withdrawing it, only to try again in another spot. Eventually, he was stretched flat out on his belly, his arm fully extended into the crawl space. 

With a soft grunt, he wiggled his arm in a bit further, frowning in concentration, and then suddenly he stopped cold, his expression changing completely. 

“I’ve got something!” he muttered. “I… let me see if I can… I’m trying to get my hand around it, but it’s… “ He made a noise in his throat and tried to get a better position. “Okay… hang on… got it!”

Triumphantly, he withdrew his arm, bringing with it a small box. It had suffered water damage, from the looks of it, and it was frayed and scored and beaten-looking. Once black, now its colour was a faded, weathered-looking grey. 

Her heart banging madly in her chest, Hermione could barely keep herself from shouting. “Open it!” she urged, her voice an excited squeak.

Removing the lid from the box turned out to be a challenge, as the seal had been made and broken a number of times. When it wouldn’t come away with old-fashioned brute force, Draco smiled grimly.

“He’s got it Charmed. Right, then. That’s easy enough. _Aperire!_ ” A moment later, the lid came away with relative ease. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, there was a leather-bound book. He started to remove it from the box, but Hermione stayed his hand. 

“Wait!” she said tensely, checking her watch. “We’ve been here too long already. Let’s get out of here! We can look at it back at the house. Agreed?”

Nodding, Draco slipped the cover back on the box and then closed the trap door securely, returning the rug to its place on top. Then, he slid his arm around Hermione's waist. “Hang on! Here we go!”

A moment later, the office of Porter Underwood was once again as silent and dark as the grave.

 

 

*

 

 

The evening air in the gardens of the Papadakos mansion was fragrant with the perfume of trees and shrubbery newly in flower. Not stopping to appreciate their beauty, Hermione and Draco hurried into the house. Andreas and his wife were sitting in the parlour by the fire; both of them jumped up to greet their guests when they heard the click of the front door as it closed. They weren’t prepared for the sight of Draco and his pretty colleague giving them a polite but rather breathless greeting and then tearing right past them up the staircase.

“Come on,” Draco told her, steering her by the elbow. “We can work in my room. Bigger and more comfortable.” 

The logic of that was a bit elusive, but Hermione didn’t care at the moment; she was far too excited about examining the book. She made herself comfortable on the generous bed as Draco strode to the windows, drawing the heavy, damask drapes. Then he joined her. With great care, she slipped the book out of its box and held it in her palms. It appeared to have been burnt, its leather cracked and badly singed at the edges.

“Open it,” Draco said softly. 

The first page simply contained a name penned in a tidy scrawl: “Porter Underwood.” Hermione gently turned the fragile page.

“It’s his diary,” she murmured. “Dating back two years, looks like.” She turned the brittle pages slowly, words from an assortment of entries jumping out at them. “Not all that many entries, though. I wonder why.”

“Reckon he wanted to keep a pretty tight lid on whatever it was he was keeping this journal for,” Draco mused, taking the book from her and scrutinising it more closely. “What I wonder is, what the hell happened to it? Looks like somebody’s tried to destroy it. Underwood himself?”

“Quite possibly.” Hermione reached into Draco’s lap and turned another page. “Only one way to find out.”

 

_12 July 2007_

_The scroll is clearly very old indeed. Would venture to say it dates back several thousand years. The language appears to be a form of Linear B, similar to that used by the Mycenaeans. I have not yet identified many of the words, but am making good progress in that regard. Difficult, however, because the scroll is so fragile. I worry that it will fall apart, and I will be left with nothing but fragments._

_Weather beastly hot. Repaired a rather large hole in my mosquito netting last night. Am not sleeping well lately. Disturbing dreams._

_31 July 2007_

_The work continues apace. Have got nearly two thirds of the text translated. I am convinced that this is no ordinary scroll. It appears to predate even the earliest known forms of the Greek alphabet. Age aside, the story it tells seems almost too fantastic, even for me. The implications are astonishing. And yet, it would seem that they are true._

_Dreams intensifying, frightening images I cannot seem to shake. They haunt me in waking hours._

_10 August 2007_

_Gods, what have I done?_

_I hope I will be able to tell the whole story of what has now befallen me. There may not be time. I must keep this journal well hidden. It is the only means I have of preserving both my story and any shred of my professional reputation. If other, more knowing eyes happen to see this, it is my hope that such a person or persons will know what to do with this information. I appeal to members of the community from which I came many years ago. You know who you are. If any one of you reads this, I trust that you will also understand what needs to be done. I am not at all certain, anymore, that I have the strength or the will to do it myself._

 

There were some smudges at this point on the page; it appeared that either soot or water, or a combination of the two, had been smeared over a section of the page. 

“Fair bit of water and smoke damage here,” Draco remarked, rubbing some soot from his fingertips.

“Somebody tried to _stop_ the journal being burnt,” Hermione muttered darkly. “Bet it was Underwood himself. He’d have no reason to destroy the very document he says he hopes will be preserved. The real question is–”

“Who tried to torch it. Yeah. That’s exactly it.” He exhaled deeply, frowning. “Underwood hoped somebody from our world would find this eventually. Well, he’s got his wish. Carry on reading, Granger.”

 

_I no longer have any idea what day it is, or for that matter, what month or even what year. Time behaves oddly here. The hours, the days… everything has run together and has done for some time. Though for how long, I cannot say. It would be funny if I weren’t completely terrified._

_I am a prisoner._

_I suppose I should be grateful that these moments of abject fear only occur periodically, when I’m permitted free reign over my own thoughts once again. Those other times – I know they happen, because there are great, yawning gaps in my memory. Its return is a double-edged sword. I am happy to be once again in my right mind, yet the dread and loneliness are becoming very nearly unbearable._

_There are others, of course, many of them. I’ve seen them in daylight and I hear them in the night, when everything is still. They roar, they squeal, they grunt and squeak; sometimes, there are frightful snuffling noises outside my chamber. I try very hard to blot them out, but even when she lies in my arms, even then (or perhaps most especially then. I wouldn’t put it past her to want to teach me gratitude and humility in that way, put me in my place), my ears are filled with their sounds. In those moments, I know two things: that I am lucky, just then, to be resting in the luxury of her perfumed, silken chamber, and that when I am not, I too am one of the unfortunates roaming about outside, another of her freakish creatures. She is herself a creature of whims and fancies. We are merely her toys._

_Day by day, she devours us, taking our wills and spirits. I am growing weaker. Soon there will be nothing left of me but a shell. Even my magic is useless against hers._

_What an irony it is to realise that my desire to know, to learn, has wrought something truly dreadful – that my zeal and foolish ambition have awakened and unleashed something upon the world that may well mean my own doom._

 

Hermione paused, looking at Draco with wide eyes. This was less – and yet, far more, in a way – than she had expected, coming to Greece. Adrenaline sent excitement surging through her as she considered the implications of what they were now looking at. She had hoped to find proof of Circe’s existence in the form of a single parchment. Whether that parchment actually still existed remained to be seen, but one thing was clear. Underwood could be describing only one legendary sorceress: Circe herself. 

Draco’s own gaze as he looked back at her was steady, apparently unflappable, but even he couldn’t completely mask the excitement that he was feeling. It was there in his eyes, a certain almost unnatural brightness. They were on the hunt now and the thrill of the chase was addicting. It was always that way with every new find, every new portal into the past.

There were only a few more entries, each of them a frightened and desperate echo of the ones that preceded it. And then they arrived at the end. 

 

 _I must find a way out!_ it read. _The longer I stay, the more difficult it becomes to escape her and return to my own world. Day by day, I feel myself changing, shifting inside my own skin, so that increasingly, I am what she has made of me. Soon, it will be impossible to be anything else. My true self will be lost to me forever._

_There is one last thing I might try, one way I might be able to reverse the spell she has cast on me. I have copied her words here. Perhaps if I can work a counter spell from them, I can undo the damage I have caused. Even as I write these words, I know that my efforts are doomed to failure. Nevertheless, I must try._

_I am no longer concerned with the others. They found their way here eons ago, unwary and unlucky sailors, and they are as much a part of her ancient story as she herself is. I am different. I do not belong here, and I should never have come in the first place, but for my own insatiable quest for glory and fame. None of that is important anymore._

_I SEEK THE PATH NOT SOUGHT  
I HEAR YOUR SECRET SONG, SWEET AS WINE   
THE YEARS ARE BUT MINUTES  
BANISH THEM FOREVER, MY QUEEN, AND  
WELCOME YOUR HUMBLE SUPPLICANT_

 

The words on the page shimmered, seeming to beckon, and both Draco and Hermione found themselves reading them aloud in unison, each of them holding one end of the diary, the words flowing from their mouths unbidden and unstoppable. As they did, a curious hum began, a vibration that seemed to originate from the centre of the book and radiate to its outer edges. The hum grew rapidly louder, the vibration even more powerful, so that their hands were soon shaking as well. 

“I can’t let go!” Hermione exclaimed, panicking. “My fingers are stuck!”

“Mine too!” Draco grunted, trying in vain to extricate his hand from the book. “Granger, I think this thing is a–” 

In that moment, a very familiar sensation engulfed them both, a pulling at their navels, and in the next few seconds, both they and the book were gone without a trace.


	5. Chapter 5

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=eilonwy5.png)

 

 

 

 

Cool sea breezes and the sound of gulls and other shore birds… lovely and so restful, that sound… and then there was a sudden spray of cold salt water in Hermione’s face. Spluttering, she opened her eyes to find Draco crouching beside her with an easy grin as he absently dried his wet hand on the seat of his jeans.

“Hello, Sleeping Beauty. Glad you finally decided to join me. You do realise that diary was a Portkey, yeah? Clearly, it was Charmed, because–”

Hermione sat up and looked around. They were on a long stretch of pristine white sand, as soft and fine as silk. Beyond the beach, the land rose in a series of densely forested hills. Shading her eyes, she could just make out an opening in the stands of pine trees atop one of the hills; a house stood there, sunlight glinting off the white columns of its grand portico.

Sunlight? 

“Hang on,” she interrupted. “It was just night time, wasn’t it? We’re… we _must_ be… “

“On Circe’s island, yeah. Underwood did say that time behaves differently here, didn’t he. I expect the seasons do too.” He sighed. “Hot, isn’t it?” 

Getting to his feet, he peeled off his shirt in a single, fluid motion, stretching luxuriantly, and then he turned to face her.

“Come on then, up you get,” he laughed, leaning down and offering her a hand. “This is the best thing that could’ve happened. Not sure what we’ll find here, but there’s a chance that now, we can really get to the bottom of this whole thing. You’ll have some answers, maybe. And you’ll be documenting all of it first-hand. Incredible opportunity. Fucking amazing, really.”

Grasping his hand, she stood, brushing sand off her clothes and shaking out her hair. “I’m stunned, to be honest. I never thought, not in a million years… well, let’s just say that my previous research was never quite like this!”

The sun was high in the sky now, and Draco’s long, fair hair gleamed almost white in its strong light. It brushed his bare shoulders, deeply tanned from many hours spent in the sun on digs. Indeed, all that hard physical work had made him incredibly fit. Hermione found that she couldn’t look away. 

Draco quirked an eyebrow, smiling to himself briefly, and then he chuckled. “I bet it wasn’t! Mine either. Well,” he sighed, slinging his shirt over one shoulder and then scooping up the diary where it had fallen on the sand. “Reckon we ought to get moving… much as I’d like to take advantage of this beautiful, very private beach…”

Glancing back at her over his shoulder as he began to walk towards the wooded path, he smiled. 

It was breathtaking. 

For a moment, Hermione froze, forgetting everything in the dazzle of that smile. Taking a step back, she stumbled on something underfoot. Thinking she’d stepped on a small shell, she stooped to get a better look. The thing was small, about the size of a thimble, pale beige in colour, and rolled very tightly. 

Parchment. A doll-sized scroll, a perfect miniature. Except that it _wasn’t_ , not really. 

“Malfoy!” she called, her voice betraying her sudden urgency. “Wait! Look at this!”

Draco turned and looked back in her direction. She held up her hand, but what she had in it was far too small for him to see even at that relatively short distance. But the rising excitement in her voice was enough to bring him back to her side at a run.

“What is it? What’ve you got, Hermione?” he said, slightly breathless. 

She opened her palm. “Look! I think… I think this must’ve fallen out of the diary when we dropped it. Somehow, Underwood must’ve hidden it in there. It’s… it’s the parchment. The one Underwood found when he was excavating two years ago. It’s got to be!”

She dropped the tiny scroll into his hand and he scrutinised it carefully for a moment, turning it over and over, gently stroking the parchment, even lifting it to his nose and sniffing. 

“It’s pretty obvious he Shrank it so he could hide it. So apparently, he didn’t lose all his magic whilst under Circe’s control. And…” Draco began rifling quickly through the pages of the diary. “… you’re right, clearly he managed to hide it somewhere in here… Ah!” He looked up with a triumphant smile. 

Thrusting the book towards Hermione, he pointed. A deep, oblong hole about two inches long and half an inch wide had been cut through a fairly thick section of pages towards the back of the diary. Underwood had Shrunk the scroll, secreting it snugly in this space.

“Clever,” Hermione murmured. “Merlin, what could be in it that he felt compelled to hide it?”

“That,” Draco replied in a measured tone, “is our dilemma, isn’t it. Do we open it or not? Professionally, we don’t have a choice. It’s our responsibility to investigate and examine a find as significant as this. We _can’t_ ignore it. And I don’t know about you, but I sure as hell don’t want to. On the other hand, we have the evidence of Underwood’s own words. Clearly, this find turned out to be a Pandora’s box for him.”

“Disastrous,” Hermione said quietly, nodding.

“Yes. And it could be the same for us. Right now, we don’t fully know what we’re dealing with. If we go ahead, we need to do it with our eyes wide open.” 

Draco’s demeanour had become quite serious in a matter of seconds. Hermione had never seen him look that way – not since the war, at least, but then, he had been a frightened boy all those years ago, and that paralysing fear had been written all over his face. Now he was no longer a boy; there was a certain grave calm in his eyes, a steely determination in the face of an unknown with potentially catastrophic consequences. She knew instantly what his choice would be.

“Agreed,” she said, with as much firmness as she could manage. Because suddenly, this was much more than just a professional exercise. There was real, palpable danger here, far more than she could ever have anticipated, going in. Porter Underwood had paid the ultimate price for his professional ambitions. Was she willing to do the same?

“Scared?” he asked quietly. “I am, a bit. But hell, what an adventure, eh?”

In that moment, Hermione knew that this little bit of levity belied the truth of his feelings. Far from deluding himself about any of this, he was embracing the risk head-on and indeed, with eyes wide open. Suddenly, she felt eminently safer.

“I’m a bit scared too,” she admitted. “But I think we must open the scroll. We’re already here without a way to get back. What have we got to lose at this point? I know, I know. Our lives,” she added hastily, with a small, dark laugh. “Yes. But if we’re careful and keep our wits about us, I think we’ll be okay. Look, we’ve got to solve this or else we might never get back home again. Right?”

Draco nodded grimly. “Right. So – we press on, then. You do the honours, Granger. It’s your project.”

He pulled his wand out of his pocket and touched the seal lightly, with a muttered “ _Aperire!_ ” Instantly, the seal melted away and the scroll unravelled itself a single, tantalising inch. He handed it to Hermione, watching her expectantly, excitement mounting in his eyes.

Hermione was fairly certain that it was excitement mixed with a liberal dose of apprehension in her own eyes. With great care, her heart in her throat, she began to unroll the parchment. As she did so, it seemed to shimmer and vibrate, just as the spell words in the diary had done earlier. And then, with a prodigious _pop_ , it grew, expanding to its original size before their eyes. They had just moved closer together to begin examining it when there was a rustle behind them.

“ _Who are you?_ ”

Draco and Hermione spun around. There stood a woman of extraordinary beauty. She was tall and slim, with milk-pale skin and sapphire eyes. Long, thick coppery hair tumbled down her back in waves and woven plaits. She wore a gown of a gossamer material, cinched about her tiny waist with a jewelled chain and draped over bared shoulders, falling softly to the ground. Rings and bracelets adorned her arms and hands, a golden torque about her slender neck. A silver bracelet, its two ends the heads of snakes, twined itself about her upper arm, heads dipping and hissing, tiny forked tongues flicking and tasting the air.

Hermione took an involuntary step backwards, stopping when she backed into Draco. He hadn’t moved a muscle, but she could feel him stiffen behind her.

“ _You!_ ” She pointed at Hermione, who still held the parchment. “You have defiled my property and deliberately sought to intrude upon my private sanctuary. Why have you come?”

Without waiting for an answer, Circe levelled a finger directly at the scroll, uttering an unfamiliar incantation. Instantly, a passage in the scroll was illuminated by ensorcelled flames. 

_Beware_ , the words read. _Whosoever steals my sacred words as good as severs a limb from my body. For laying eyes on that which must not be seen, the thief shall be bound as a slave to do my bidding for eternity._

“This is the law of my island. You have trespassed and so you must pay the price.” Thrusting her arm straight out once again, she pointed a finger at the scroll. Instantly, a current of white-hot energy crackled from the tip of her finger to the scroll and it flew through the air, landing neatly in Circe’s grasp. 

“Now then…” she mused, moving closer and eyeing her visitors, a sly smile playing about her lips. “What shall I do with the two of you, I wonder?” Then she looked straight at Hermione. “I suppose I could keep you for my lover. I have not had a woman in some time.” 

She circled Hermione, looking her up and down and shaking her head. She sighed. “No, I think not. You are pretty enough, but far too scrawny for my tastes. Pity. Then again…” She tapped a finger against her bottom lip, considering. “I could simply kill you right here and now. We could make a game of it. A hide-and-seek game. That might be a pleasant diversion. I am so very bored…” 

Her voice trailed off as she completed the circle and stood before Hermione, very close now. “Or… I could make you my handmaiden. My slave. Which of these would you like best, my pretty? Hmm?” She tipped Hermione’s chin up with her finger and held her there.

“I am yours to command,” Hermione replied, trying very hard to control the trembling that had her knees knocking together.

“Very well. My handmaiden you shall be, then. Stand aside,” Circle ordered, her voice hard and unforgiving. She pushed Hermione away and moved closer to Draco. Her smile was cunning now, seductive, baring perfect white teeth.

“And you,” she purred, eyes hooded. “I know precisely what I shall do with _you_. Come, my darling. You must be tired. You shall have a refreshing bath and a nice, long rest, and then we shall dine together.” She gave Hermione a cursory glance, her voice turning hard as stone once again. “You, girl. Follow me.”

Looping her arm through Draco’s, she began walking him up the wooded path towards the house. He turned his head just once to look back at Hermione, who was trailing forlornly behind them, and gave her a quick, reassuring wink. 

Then he snapped his head back around as Circe, her smile faintly predatory, tightened her grip on his arm and led him away.

 

 

*

 

 

Circe’s mansion was magnificent, all gleaming white columns and large, airy rooms decorated in a sumptuous array of silks and richly woven rugs and tapestries. Ceilings and walls were painted in lush frescoes depicting tales of seduction and the hunt, each one more vividly explicit than the last. There were huge vases of fresh-cut flowers and scented candles burning everywhere, their soft glow and seductive fragrance making each room a place of utter tranquillity and relaxation. 

But far more striking were the creatures that prowled the property outside the mansion as well as inside. They paced back and forth, a frighteningly formidable sight, and yet were curiously docile. Huge, majestic lions with glorious manes, powerful wolves, jet-black leopards and sleek, spotted ones… all claimed the mansion as their domain, guarding but also greeting each visitor, rubbing their heads against a hand or leg, their low barks and chuffs clearly showing submission.

“Never fear,” Circe said airily, waving a hand in their direction as the three approached the house. “They are mine. They will not harm you.”

Despite all that was happening – despite the horror of Underwood’s experiences, resulting in his death – Hermione couldn’t help feeling awestruck. Merlin above, Circe was _real_. They were here with her, in her house, the storied mansion where, among others, Odysseus and his enchanted men were said to have sojourned for a full year, all of the latter turned to pigs. The old stories hadn’t really been myths at all. 

If Circe were real, there was a fair chance that others – perhaps the entire pantheon of Greek gods, and other pantheons as well, and beyond them, all the fabled mages gifted with extraordinary powers – had been just as real. 

She had suspected as much, had hoped for the chance to prove it, even though she knew that myths and fairy tales had played a part, as well, in creating the roots of wizarding lore. But this – _this_ opened up all sorts of tantalising possibilities, enough to make her head spin. Wide-eyed, she glanced at Draco, who was being led to a cosy nest of large, sinfully soft cushions. Feeling her gaze on him, he turned his head and their eyes met. The expression on his face told her that he was feeling very much the same overwhelming shock, thrill, and awe that she felt.

“You, girl. What are you called?” Circe’s question shattered Hermione’s reverie, and she started.

“My name? Oh, it’s… it’s Hermia,” she replied, thinking quickly. “And this is my… my brother.” She paused and then added, “Damon.”

Hermione caught the eyebrow raised a fraction and the barest hint of amusement in Draco’s eyes, but he kept silent, his face impassive. 

“And how did you come to have something that belongs to me?” Circe’s gaze was keenly penetrating. She waited for an answer with the air of a cobra taking the measure of its victim while making ready to strike.

There was no time to concoct an elaborate ruse. And besides, the sorceress was far too intelligent and perceptive not to recognise an outright lie. 

“We… well… “ Hermione began slowly. “We–” 

“Our friend died with it in his possession,” Draco interjected. 

A grossly simplified version of the truth might just be their best protection. Hermione felt herself relax ever so slightly. _Well played, Malfoy._

“We had no intention of intruding upon you,” he continued. “We were simply sorting through his things after his death and came upon it unawares. Somehow we ended up here. Where are we, exactly?”

“You have found your way to my island. It is called Aeaea. Since you meant no harm and I have what is mine once again, I will show you mercy.” 

Circe regarded her prisoners with a smile that was smug and condescending, disturbingly calculating and secretive, its graciousness transparently brittle. This was a dangerous witch, and she was making quite certain that they were in no doubt of that.

“Now then, Hermia,” she said, her voice silken, “you will join my ladies in the anteroom. They will give you something more appropriate to wear. Change your clothing and then come back to me here for further instructions.” Circe swept an arm in the direction of an adjoining room and then seated herself gracefully amongst the cushions, very close to Draco. “You may go.”

 

 

*

 

 

The filmy garment flowed like molten silver, from the jewelled clasp at her left shoulder to the gathered waist and on down to where it brushed Hermione’s bare feet. It was so light and soft to the touch, so sheer, that she felt quite naked. In point of fact, beneath the diaphanous gown, she literally was naked, as were all of Circe’s handmaidens. 

Her hair had been loosely gathered into a long, intricate braid woven with tiny flowers, chestnut tendrils curling about her face. Bracelets adorned her wrists and ankles, and rings graced both fingers and toes. A long, silver chain hung about her neck, its filigreed locket brushing her bare breasts as she moved. 

Ugliness and deformity were anathema to Circe. She loved beauty and celebrated it passionately, insisting that everything surrounding her – her home, her serving women, and her many lovers – be as attractive as she herself was. This Hermione had discovered in the hour that had been spent transforming her. Circe’s serving women were nothing if not talkative, and all too ready to share their tidbits of gossip.

It would pay, Hermione realised quickly, to listen with great care to even the smallest, most inconsequential remark. There were many secrets in Circe’s house, and great magic besides.

Now, as she padded back to the main room where she had last seen Draco and Circe, she tried very hard to banish all self-conscious thoughts and focus on what was ahead and how they might escape. Not only did they need to get away, of course; there was a larger, more difficult task before them as well: how to put the rabbit back into the hat, as it were. It would not be easy.

The scene, when she arrived a moment later, was enough to stop her in her tracks.

Draco lay in a sunken tub filled to the rim with clear, scented water, lilies and the petals of other flowers floating lazily on top. The tub had not been visible earlier, Hermione realised, because it had been covered over with a rug. His head rested on a pillow, his eyes were closed, and he appeared utterly relaxed. 

Circe knelt by the side of the tub, sensuously smoothing water over his bare chest, shoulders and arms, using both her palms and a small sponge, which she filled with water and then squeezed gently so that the water trickled over his skin in slow, languid drops. As Hermione approached, the enchantress thrust a decorated, ceramic bowl toward her.

“Here, girl. Fill this with water from the hot spring outside and return quickly. My lovely Damon will be feeling chilled soon.”

As soon as she had relinquished the bowl, Circe turned back to Draco, leaning over him so that her perfumed breasts were very close to his face. His eyelids fluttered once, and Hermione saw that they opened just a slit before dropping closed once again. It seemed in that moment as if he were trying very hard to resist Circe’s considerable charms. But then, one nicely toned arm emerged from the water, coming to rest on her bare back, his fingers splayed and sensuously massaging the witch’s smooth white skin.

Hermione turned away, swallowing hard. He was _enjoying_ this. It was obvious. What was the difference to him, anyway – her, Circe, Galina, or a hundred others? They were all interchangeable, apparently, as long as they were warm and willing female bodies, preferably young and nubile. Well, thank Merlin she hadn’t given in to her own worst instincts. She might have done, and soon too, had the circumstances been right. She should be grateful, she reminded herself, that they hadn’t been.

As she moved away, bowl in hand, she heard him murmur, “Won’t you join me, Circe? There’s more than enough room for two…”

Unbidden tears stinging her eyes, Hermione quickened her pace. She only wished she could ditch the bowl and keep running, and not have to go back and see the two of them together in that bath. 

The sight, when she did return, was as bad as she’d imagined. Circe was in the tub, naked and reclining against Draco’s chest, enfolded in the embrace of his arms and legs. His eyes were still closed, but his hands were on her breasts, stroking and caressing, fondling them in such an intimate, seductive way that Hermione had to press her legs together to try and quell the coiling, throbbing heat and wetness that flared between them. She desperately wanted to look away but found she could not. 

“Bring the water here,” Circe murmured, sighing with pleasure, and then one of his hands disappeared below the water line and the sorceress let out a small gasp.

‘Oh gods! Everyone will see!’ Hermione thought desperately. Surely, anyone taking one look at her would _know_. The gown she wore was virtually transparent, and now the juices of her arousal were beginning to drip down her inner thighs. Her respiration had become erratic, and she was finding it difficult to catch a proper breath. Mortified, she advanced to the tub’s edge and, trying very hard not to look at what was transpiring right before her eyes, she poured the heated water into the tub. What was happening to her was embarrassing, but it was also dangerous, she realised, through the haze of her intensifying excitement. Draco was supposed to be her brother. Would a sister react in this extreme way, even given the fact that there was an undeniable eroticism in the scene that would affect anyone who wasn’t dead.

 _Flee. Run. Get away now._ Such were the frantic thoughts that consumed Hermione as she turned and tried to hasten away. Unfortunately, she failed to notice the bowl of assorted fruits that another of the serving girls had left by the tub’s edge, and now she tripped, falling forward onto her knees, the back of her gown damp now and clinging to her buttocks. Her right knee had come down on the tiles very hard, and without thinking, she sat down, leaning to one side and pulling the gauzy fabric away so that she could inspect the damage. 

The knee hurt like hell. It would be badly bruised by morning, and Hermione wished she could Heal it, but she didn’t dare. Such an act would give the whole game away and then both she and Draco would be in far worse trouble than they already were. Though he didn’t seem to be suffering too much, she thought basely, patting at her knee and wincing. 

When she looked up, she saw that both Circe and Draco were staring, though the expressions on their faces were very different. Circe looked on the verge of screaming a reprimand, her eyes flashing with barely contained anger.

Draco, on the other hand, had gone very still, his grey eyes round with concern. And not only concern, Hermione was surprised to realise; there was something else there too. Was it… _desire?_ Yes! There was hunger in his eyes, and it was for _her_. Glancing down, she understood. In the fall, the jewelled clasp at her shoulder had come undone, the top of the gown slipping down and leaving her breasts completely bared to his gaze. She’d been so consumed with the injury that she had failed to notice her nakedness. 

A deep, all-consuming flush crept inexorably over her body, firing her nerve endings once again, and now she was even more desperate to get away. She was not alone in that desire, apparently.

“Get up, you clumsy girl! Out of my sight!” Circe screamed, her arm flailing in fury and sending a small river of water and flower petals splashing over the tiled floor. 

Clutching the top of her gown to her chest, Hermione gathered herself and fled, tears beginning to spill over as she ran. In the safety and anonymity of a dark corner as far away from prying eyes as she could get, she slipped down to the floor and wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking herself and crying, though precisely what she wept for, she wasn’t even certain herself. 

Much later, hours later in fact, she awoke from the sleep that had mercifully overtaken her in that secluded corner. Voices disturbed her sleep, the sounds of busy, laughing chatter. The serving women were walking through the dim room on their way to their own quarters.

“Well, I must say, that one she’s got now is certainly one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. What a splendid catch for Circe he is!”

“Indeed! If he’s smart and knows what’s good for him, he will play his part well.”

“Such a shame about the others. If only we could have warned them of what’s to come. Not that they could have changed any of it, of course. But perhaps it would have been easier on them. They could have put off the inevitable a bit longer, perhaps lessen the severity of their fate. This one might be different, though. I do believe he’s got her wrapped round his little finger, if my eyes and ears can be trusted.”

There was laughter then, and one of them added, giggling, “Oh my stars, did you _see_ what happened to the new girl! Zeus’ beard, what a clumsy fool! I think she wanted to dive into the tub with them! The girl was practically begging for it. And frankly, I have to wonder about that ‘brother’ of hers. He’s no brother, believe me. Not the way she was looking at him, nor the way _he_ was looking at _her._ ”

Echoes of agreement rippled around the circle of women and then one of them continued.

“Indeed! In the tub with Circe, one of the most beautiful of all the goddesses, and I swear by Aphrodite herself, his eyes nearly fell out of his head when that silly girl’s gown slipped. I must say, though, he’s put on quite a convincing show otherwise.”

“And a very good thing, too,” another of the serving women piped up, “because we all know what will happen to his ‘sister’ if he does not. Circe has made it plain to him in so many words. I heard her myself.” 

The voices were fading, the women moving through the room towards the exit now, and Hermione strained to hear. But they were too far away now, and she sat back against the marble column, dazed.

_Because we all know what will happen to his ‘sister’ if he does not…_

A cold hand clutched at the pit of Hermione’s stomach at the danger implicit in those words, and yet, there was a curious, quite glorious explosion of light and warmth in her brain. Things couldn’t be more dire, and yet… 

A powerful determination now suffused Hermione. She _would_ find a way to save Draco and get them out of there, no matter what it took.


	6. Chapter 6

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=eilonwy3.png)

 

 

 

 

 _Listen carefully, pay attention, and remember._

The adage had proven itself several times already, in terms of basic information gathered and stored away for future use. Most recently, Hermione had learnt, from the bits and pieces dropped in conversations within her earshot, that Circe’s primary store of botanicals for potions came from the wood that surrounded the mansion and a meadow just beyond that. Other supplies came from the rocky outcroppings overlooking the sea on all sides of the island.

There was one particular part of the wood, in fact, one of the serving women had mentioned purely in passing – the part most difficult to get to, having the most prickly of brambles and treacherous poisonous plants that could give one a horribly painful, itchy rash. She’d been all over hives, she declared, and a really nasty case of it too, swearing that Circe could get somebody else to go and gather what she required, thank you very much. This, of all places, was where the best supplies of certain herbs and plants were to be found.

Hermione hadn’t seen much of Draco since the night of the bath, and at this point, she wasn’t sure if this were more of a relief or a torture for her. Time was doing funny things once again, and she couldn't be sure if the incident had been days earlier or mere hours. Nevertheless, it seemed that lately, Circe always asked for one of her other handmaidens to come and attend her, and, by extension, Draco. She was keeping him under very close watch, rarely letting him out of her sight for more than a few minutes. So Hermione pounced when she caught sight of him on his own in one of the small, inner gardens.

He was sitting on a stone bench, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, head bowed. She watched him silently for a moment, noting the curve of his back and the set of his shoulders. He wore a traditional tunic now, the drape over one shoulder leaving his chest mostly bare. Hunched over as he was, she could see the cleanly defined musculature of his upper arms and the well-shaped thighs and calves. 

“Malfoy?” she whispered, and for a long moment, he seemed frozen in place, cocking his head to one side as if he weren’t sure he’d actually heard something. Then he turned sharply, catching sight of her.

“ _Granger?_ Come here!” he hissed, beckoning.

She hurried over to the bench and sat down beside him. Before she knew what she was doing, she’d thrown her arms around him in a fierce hug. Instantly, his arms were around her too. She could feel his warm hands pressing against the diaphanous material of her gown.

“You’re okay!” he murmured into her hair. “Seems like days since I’ve seen you. I was worried.”

There was something more than a bit surreal, finding herself in Draco Malfoy’s arms and hearing him voice such sentiments. Weird, but rather nice, too, she had to admit. No time to indulge such musings, though. They had to talk quickly while they had the chance.

“Look, about… well, you know… about the other day…” he muttered. “Shit, Granger. I’m sorry you had to see that. I–”

“It’s okay,” Hermione said quickly, spots of colour burning high on her cheeks. “I know.” _At least I think I do._

“She threatened to hurt you if I didn’t cooperate. Not in so many words, but the inference was pretty clear. I had to play along.” Distractedly, he raked a hand through his hair. 

Hermione’s mouth twisted in a smirk she couldn’t stop. “You didn’t look like you were having too bad a time of it,” she observed tartly.

“Reckon it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve been forced to do in my life,” he admitted, with a crooked, rather sheepish grin.

“No doubt.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t _want_ to do it, not really. And especially not in front of you. You have to believe me. If it helps anything, you should know I wasn’t thinking about her at all.” His voice had gone very soft now, like a caress. “I was thinking about you.” 

His eyes were telling her even more than that, sweeping over her barely covered body in a lingering glance and then burning into hers, and now she remembered the way he had looked at her after she’d tripped and fallen, as if he’d wanted to devour her whole, as if she were the only woman in the world. She shivered involuntarily, trying to ignore the hot blush flooding her cheeks.

“I could feel her reading my thoughts. It happened so fast, I couldn’t block her,” he went on. “And now she doesn’t want me anywhere near you.”

“Her powers are prodigious. She frightens me,” Hermione admitted, frowning. “We need to get out of here as soon as possible. And we’ve got to make sure she goes back where she came from. Underwood must have unknowingly released her when he read her parchment. Somehow, we’ve got to find a way to reverse what he did. Listen, Malfoy,” she told him now with some urgency. “I need to warn you! According to the old stories, when Circe captured a man, she would either turn him into an animal right away by giving him a drink laced with a special potion, or she would seduce him first and then do it, keeping him in animal form when she didn’t require his… his services. That’s what happened to Underwood.”

“And that’s why,” Draco interjected, sudden awareness dawning, “he came back the way he did.”

“Part pig. Right. He couldn’t fight her anymore. Her power was too great.” The mere memory of the chalk outline they’d seen on Underwood’s floor made Hermione shudder with revulsion: a human man with the snout and limbs of a swine, his last breath a scream of agony or perhaps only a pathetic gasp, his hooves frantically pedalling the air before he stopped moving altogether.

Draco nodded soberly but remained silent, waiting for the rest.

“There’s a special plant, see. It’s called _moly_. Also known as the snowdrop. It’s said to have protected Odysseus against Circe’s potion when she seduced him, and it will protect you, too, if I can find some. Have… have you and she…”

The indelicate question hung awkwardly in the air between them. She really didn’t want the answer, but there was no way around it. All she could do was try very hard to blot out the really disturbing thoughts and images.

Miserably, he nodded again, looking away. “I… Fuck, Hermione… Don’t ask me this!”

“But… but she didn’t give you anything to drink?” 

He shook his head. “No, not so far.”

There was relief in that knowledge, anyway. “Good,” she sighed. “Make sure you don’t drink anything. In the meantime, I’ll try to find some _moly_ , see if I can brew something to stop her turning _you_ into a pig.”

Draco’s laughter was grim. “Hurry up, can’t you? I’ve managed to hold her off since the last time, but she’s persistent and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to. And frankly, I rather prefer two legs to four.”

Just then, there were voices, the laughter and chatter growing louder and nearer by the second. Circe and her ladies were approaching; it would be only a matter of moments before they passed along the corridor that offered views of the inner courtyard and garden. Hastily, Hermione hid herself behind a large, flowering hydrangea bush just as Circe spotted Draco on the stone seat.

“Ah, Damon, how lovely to find you here. Come… walk with me. I have much to show you.” She smiled seductively, holding out a pale, bejewelled arm for him to take.

Dutifully, Draco rose from the stone bench, offering his own arm to the enchantress, and then her entourage moved off, leaving Hermione alone in the deepening shadows of the garden. She wondered that Circe had seemed oblivious to her absence, but decided to take advantage of it while she could. The wood beckoned just beyond the garden wall. Perhaps it would yield the immediate remedy she sought, and more besides.

 

 

*

 

 

That first foray into the wood had been disappointing. Time had been short, and Hermione had felt the fear of being discovered pressing upon her with every passing minute as she wandered the unfamiliar paths. The wood was preternaturally dark and dense, the trees rising out of underbrush that was tangled and wildly overgrown. Hermione could see that there was much there to harvest; many of the plants were familiar to her from years of Severus Snape’s exacting potions instruction. Quite a few more were completely alien to her; these she was careful to steer clear of. There was only one she searched for, a plant with small, bell-shaped, white blossoms on long, slender stems.

Two days passed. On the evening of the third day, Hermione was summoned to serve at table along with the others. Circe had commanded that this would be the first of three special feasts, in honour of her newest consort. From what Hermione could deduce, eavesdropping on the gossip as the other serving women bustled about preparing the platters for the table, these celebratory feasts were a common occurrence. It would be at the third and most lavish that the sorceress would offer for the toast the drink that would transform her consort into an animal of some kind. Once that was done, she could begin feeding on his spirit and energies, rejuvenating herself in the process.

Draco was just the latest in a very long line of men, all of them feted and cosseted until Circe grew bored and tired of them, hungering for the arms of someone new – or until she’d used them up. Once she had truly drained them, their value for her was as depleted as she’d left their bodies and spirits.

Standing there listening, her hands mechanically arranging and rearranging cut fruits, Hermione felt a chill, leaden weight pressing down on her chest. This would surely be Draco’s fate, as it had been all the others. As it had been Porter Underwood’s. He had not been able to extricate himself in time. The freakish man/pig found dead on his office floor was not really Underwood any longer, merely a creature of Circe’s fashioning.

On this night, Circe sat at one end of the food-laden table and Draco at the other, the serving women gliding around them, offering portions of the beautifully prepared food and then standing back and waiting in respectful silence. Hermione moved silently around the length of the table as well, eyes downcast, carefully setting down serving platters and refilling goblets.

As she leaned over Draco’s shoulder to set down a plate of cut fruits and cheeses, he cleared his throat quietly. And then, she felt his hand brush hers, pressing something very small into her palm. Her fingers closed around the object, and quickly, she withdrew her hand, tucking the object into the thin girdle of material draped over the waist of her gown. 

Heart quickening, Hermione fought to maintain the impassive, deferential countenance she needed in order not to attract unwanted attention. Her curiosity burned, though, and it was all she could do not to run pell-mell out of the banquet hall and examine the object. Her chance came a couple of hours later, after the meal had concluded and Circe had drawn Draco into the seclusion of her private chamber, leaving the serving women to clear up the remains of the meal.

Watching to be sure her departure would go unnoticed, Hermione hurried to one of the fragrant inner courtyards, the guttering candles casting the many flowers into partial shadows. She held her breath as she withdrew the object from its hiding place and opened her palm to really look at it for the first time.

It was a piece of parchment, folded several times into a tiny square. Fingers trembling slightly from both nerves and excitement, she opened it.

 _Look for the_ moly _at the pond where three oaks grow as one. Besides protecting me, it will render her temporarily powerless. D._

Astounded, Hermione closed her fingers over the note. How in Merlin’s name had Draco managed to uncover this critical piece of information? Not that it mattered now, she supposed, as intensely curious as she was. She had to find that plant and make from it a potion that she could slip into the wine jar set aside for the final feast. And she would need to do this by the night after next. On that night, Circe would seek to seal the deal, as it were, enslaving Draco forever.

There was no time to lose. Slipping silently out of the courtyard with only the meagre light from her wand tip to guide her, Hermione was swallowed up by the pitch-black wood for the second time.

 _Look for the_ moly _at the pond where three oaks grow as one..._

She had found no pond the last time she’d scouted this wood. Evidently, she hadn’t gone deep enough – or the wood itself was capricious, changing by the day, perhaps even by the hour, according to the whims of its mistress. 

She wandered for some time, and it seemed the wood grew even darker and more difficult to navigate by the minute. A small thrill of fear raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck, her hearing and sight more acute as the strange night sounds of this enchanted forest grew louder.

Suddenly, she spotted a glimmer of light between the trees and began to run. Something was there up ahead, and instinct was tugging at her now, whispering that perhaps she had found the place at last. 

Just beyond the trees, she found a clearing awash in pale, milky moonlight. In the centre, there was a small pond, gleaming like a shard of silvery glass and surrounded by overgrown grasses and thick patches of moss. Floating at its peripheries were large, flat lily pads, their flowers on the verge of blooming. And, Hermione noted, her heart beating in her throat, there was a tree at the far end. 

This was no ordinary tree, though. It wasn’t the extreme age, evident from the thickness of its trunk and limbs and its enormous height. What marked it as unusual was the odd configuration of the trunk. It looked as if three saplings had sprouted very close together, and as they grew, their stems had begun to wind around each other, vine-like, until they had become fused together. That would have been hundreds of years earlier. Now, the gargantuan trunk had the literal girth of three large trees combined, its remarkable trunk twisted about itself like twining snakes. It was like no other tree Hermione had ever seen.

She approached it, dropping to her knees in the long, soft grass at the tree’s base. There, partially obscured, were ten or fifteen small, green plants, their leaves rounded at the tips and flat, like paddles. Sprouting from the centre of each plant were two or three very slender stems, from which grew small, white blossoms. Some of them were already open, emitting a delicately sweet scent, the rest not yet mature. 

_Moly!_ This had to be it. The flowers looked exactly like the snow drops she remembered from her mother’s garden. No idea how much of it she would need, of course, and no idea precisely what to do with it now that she had it. She hoped fervently that the old gods and their remedies could be trusted three thousand years later.

Quickly, she set to work harvesting the snow drops, pulling them from the ground and dropping them into a fold of her voluminous gown.


	7. Chapter 7

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=eilonwy5.png)

 

 

 

 

Two nights later–

 

It was done. 

It hadn’t been easy, but Hermione had managed to sneak away from the observant eyes of the other women long enough, over the course of the next two days, to do her work: first, a drying spell had to be cast over the blossoms. Then, the desiccated petals had to be ground to a fine powder. Finally, they needed to be disguised. Honey and spices filched from the store room were added, everything blended into a sweet, creamy paste in which the original, mild flavour of the petals was completely overpowered. One very small spoonful per goblet of wine should do it. The _moly_ would, she hoped, vanish into the brilliant, ruby-coloured wine, already richly spiced.

The special jar of wine that she knew had been set aside for the third feast held only four goblets’ worth, though Hermione hoped fervently that one goblet each would be enough to accomplish the desired end. Evidently, whatever Circe had laced the original with would have no negative effect on her whatsoever. Well, a similar strategy in reverse would work for Hermione as well, she had thought with a grim little smile. All she had to do was slip the _moly_ mixture into an identical jar, making sure to switch the two just before the time came to serve it. _Please!_ she’d prayed, gently swirling the doctored contents of the counterfeit jar. _Let it work!_

Now, she waited quietly with the other serving women against the back wall of the dining room, her heart banging inside her chest and threatening to crawl right up into her throat and choke her. The meal had been served and now they were enjoying some sweets, Circe sitting very near to Draco and feeding him grapes and tart, juicy pomegranate sections, bites of melon and delicate, iced cakes. With each remark, she would laugh, laying a possessive hand on Draco’s bare arm or in his hair. Sometimes, she would run a soft, teasing finger down his cheek or along the line of his jaw, ending at his mouth. Then, she would lean in for a kiss, her tongue flicking over his lips and then into his mouth like a snake’s. The sounds of her voice and her laughter were jarring enough, uncannily like shattering glass. Hermione found that she could barely stomach the rest. 

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. At last, Circe signalled with a slight nod of her head and her favourite handmaiden went to retrieve the tray with the wine jar and two silver goblets. Watching, Hermione felt tiny beads of sweat lacing her forehead at the hairline. She had switched the jars only minutes earlier, slipping unobtrusively back into the banquet room just before the wine was called for.

“Ah, yes,” Circe purred, as the wine tray was set down before her. “Tonight I have a treat for you, my love. This wine has been brought all the way from Aeolia, a very special liquor only made once every hundred years. Share some with me, my lovely Damon, so that we may toast our happiness.”

With that, she nodded, and her handmaiden dutifully poured out two goblets of the fiery liquid. Then the servant bowed slightly and backed away, eyes averted. She had seen this too many times before. 

“Now then, you must drink it down quickly, all in one go,” the enchantress instructed with a smile that looked suspiciously triumphant. She raised her goblet. “To us, my darling.” 

Draco did the same. “To us,” he echoed, with a faint smile of his own. “I believe I shall enjoy this very much.”

The goblets touched lightly, and then each drank the wine down. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then, Circe’s eyes opened very wide. Slowly, her hand rose to her throat and she clutched at it, her mouth falling open and moving silently. All the colour had drained from her face and now she stared about her wildly, eyes hardening with slowly dawning anger. Yet she was unable to speak or move.

Draco had not wasted any time. The moment he had swallowed the last drops of wine, he had stood, taking one final look at the sorceress who would have imprisoned him. There was no pity in his eyes.

Now he ran straight towards Hermione, grabbing her hand and nearly pulling her off her feet as the two of them fled. 

“How long will she be without her powers?” Hermione panted as they flew along the path from the mansion down to the beach.

“Couple of hours, I reckon.” Draco’s eyes were fixed on the strip of white sand and very blue water they could see in the distance through the dense stands of trees. “More than enough time. Come on, we’re nearly there!”

In mere moments, they stood on the beach, the waves rolling in gently and breaking on the shore in clots and trails of pure, white foam. Draco stuck a hand into his tunic and withdrew a tiny, postage-sized object.

It was Underwood’s diary, Shrunk down and hidden on his person all this time. Realising what it was, Hermione looked up at Draco and beamed. Her dazzling smile told him what she found herself struggling to put into words at that moment. 

“So…” he teased, smiling. “You don’t regret having me along anymore, I reckon.”

“No,” she laughed at last, or really, it was more like laughter mixed with the tears of relief that had become clogged in her throat. “You’ve been quite handy to have around sometimes.”

“Well...” he murmured lazily, tapping the tiny diary with his wand and bringing it back to its full size. “I’m so glad to know I’ve been useful occasionally. Makes a bloke feel really needed, you know?” 

He moved closer to her and threaded his arms lightly about her waist, the book now resting against his chest and held snugly between them. 

“How...” Hermione began, her mouth suddenly dry and her thoughts scattering to the winds as he pressed himself warmly against her. “How did you find out about the _moly_?”

“Oh, that.” His answering smile held a hint of smugness, and yet, Hermione could see a shading of regret in his eyes as well. “You really want to know, then?”

She nodded, not at all sure that she did.

“Got Circe drunk a few nights ago. We were... well... you know.” He cleared his throat, embarrassed. “I thought, ‘use the wine.’ So I did. Got her good and pissed, and then I asked a few well-placed questions. Nothing too obvious, but I got her talking about the _moly._ Flattered it out of her. Said I didn’t believe there was anything that could touch her magic. She was only too happy to boast that in fact, there was, but that nobody knew what it was or where it grew or its effects. Not since that damned Odysseus used it against her, that is. Her words.” 

Hermione’s eyes had grown wide and now she laughed with pleasure. “Brilliant, Malfoy, appealing to her ego!”

Draco nodded, rather pleased with himself. “Quite a huge ego, too. Even bigger than mine,” he chuckled. “Anyway, once she was completely sozzled, I managed to get the location out of her. And then she passed out.”

“Oh, too bad,” Hermione teased, unable to resist. 

“I wasn’t bothered,” he said mildly. A tiny smile quirked the edges of his mouth. “Saved me having to pretend again.”

“Pretend?” Hermione gazed up at Draco, her brain suddenly clouding over and her heart beating just a bit faster. “Oh, come on. She’s a beautiful woman.”

“Yes,” he answered cryptically and then fell silent. Hermione could tell that he’d stopped himself, instead swallowing something he’d wanted very much to say. Suddenly, there was a bit of distance between them; he’d stepped back, catching the diary as it fell back against his chest.

“So...” she began awkwardly, forcing an attempt at lightness. “I suppose you’ll be off on another dig as soon as we get back?”

There was silence for a moment as Draco turned his head away. He stared out to sea, a small muscle pulsing in his jaw. Then he returned his gaze to Hermione, real anger and hurt in his eyes.

“Is that what you want?”

“What I want?” Hermione swallowed hard. “What do my feelings have to do with it?”

“Damn it, Hermione, they have everything to do with it! Gods, I really thought you understood by now!”

“Understood what?” Her voice had dropped to a near whisper.

“That I’m in love with you, you silly cow! I have been for _ages,_ all right? _Now_ do you see?” 

He turned away and the diary fell. Hermione caught it just before it hit the sand, then stood stock still. His back was to her as he began to speak.

“Why do you think I came along on this trip? Did you really believe Prewett just happened to break his ankle? Well, I mean, he did break it, but...” Draco’s voice trailed off and he turned his head slightly. Hermione could see that there was just a hint of a smirk on his face despite the anger, now fading.

“Did you have something to do with that?” she asked, appalled.

“Guilty.” He sighed sheepishly, turning around completely to face her again. “It’s just... I wanted the chance to spend some time with you. I thought... it could be really good for both of us. You’d get to know me finally.”

“I do know you!” 

“No, that’s just it, you see. You really don’t. Not anymore. I’m not the boy you remember. I haven’t been for a long time. And I wanted you to see that, see _me_. So... well... I made sure that cat of Prewett’s tripped him up.”

“Oh, Draco!” Hermione breathed, though she could feel an irrepressible smile coming on and a giggle not far behind that. “Oh my gosh, that’s awful!” 

“And... well... I’ve tried telling you how I feel about you several times on this trip, but you never take me seriously.”

“Bit hard to do, especially when somebody like Galina is draping herself all over you!” Hermione retorted. “Ugh, not to mention all the girls at work!” Difficult to forget his well-known reputation around the Ministry as a dyed-in-the-wool lothario.

“Galina – oh come on, that was nothing! Surely you knew that. She’s had a crush on me for years. I don’t pay any attention to it, not seriously. And yeah, well, I admit it, I’ve been a bit of a wanker at work, but really, Granger, it was all just a lot of show. Bloody hell, woman! I was trying to get your attention! Maybe I went about it arse-backwards, but that’s the truth.”

“You mean you didn’t enjoy any of that, not even a little bit?” Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow, folding her arms.

Draco grinned disarmingly. “ ’Course I did. I can’t deny it. But all the time, I was really hoping _you’d_ give me a chance.” Suddenly, he looked a bit crestfallen as he remembered. “You never did.”

And then Hermione remembered, too: all those times when Malfoy had seemed to be shadowing her, turning up so often wherever she happened to be, to the point where she was certain he was following her just to be irritating. She recalled the many times he’d hung about her office door, lounging against the door frame, making idle chitchat. She remembered seeing the outline of his form through the opaque glass even after she’d shut the door on him. He’d lingered, hoping she might change her mind, open the door again. She never had.

“Is it too late?” she asked in a small voice. 

Draco looked at her sharply. “Do you mean that?” 

Hermione nodded and gave him a tremulous smile, unable to speak for the tears that had abruptly closed her throat and begun leaking from the corners of her eyes. 

In a single stride, Draco closed the distance between them and pulled her close, the diary once again pressed tightly between them. Dipping his head, he paused just long enough to gaze deeply into her eyes. She laughed shakily, blinking through her tears and glancing away from the intensity of his gaze. "No, don't," he whispered, gently drawing her back again.

And then he kissed her. And in that moment – the gloriously electric sensation of his mouth taking hers, his hunger for her demanding and explosive, igniting her own for him – the Portkey was triggered and they vanished.

 

 

*

 

 

Bloody hell.

Algernon Parsifal was not happy. Two of his best people had come home utterly empty-handed. 

He didn’t understand it. Granger was positively driven most of the time, always pushing, always ready to go that extra mile. Merlin’s balls, this was her project, after all! She’d seemed so certain that the lead she’d had would pan out. 

Then there was Malfoy. Bit of a glamour boy, but damn, when it came down to it, he did know his stuff and he was dead serious about getting the job done. Between the two of them, they should have been able to come up with _something_.

So much had been riding on this. Now that officious, arse-kissing little twat, Percy fucking Weasley, would be leaning on him once again. Only it would be so much worse from here on.

Parsifal groaned softly as he contemplated what was likely to be his lot once his superior got wind of what had happened in detail. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, a small, devious smile turning up the corners of his mouth. 

His star employees had got him into this mess and they would jolly well get him out again. He wanted answers and by Merlin, he would have them. One way or another, he would get the truth of what had actually happened or a slightly bent version of it, he didn’t really care. Details could be changed. A tweak here or there didn’t matter, as long as his arse was no longer on the line.

Opening his office door, he stuck his head out. 

“GRANGER!” he roared. “MALFOY!”


	8. Chapter 8

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=eilonwy3.png)

 

 

 

 

Epilogue

July 2010

 

Hermione was having the most delightful dream. 

In it, she lay naked, wrapped only in warm summer sunshine. Fine, golden sand cradled her bare limbs beneath the soft blanket, and the mildest of ocean breezes gently caressed her, ruffling her hair and cooling her heated skin. Overhead, shore birds called as they soared and dipped, diving for fish in the teal-blue waters. The sky was cloudless and a deep, brilliant azure, mirroring the sea beneath. The sound of the surf breaking as small waves crested and then rolled in to shore was soothing and hypnotic.

Someone was whispering very close to her ear, his breath warm and ticklish as it fanned the sensitive skin of her neck, though she couldn’t make out what was being said. Eventually, the whispers began resolving themselves into words she could understand. 

“Hermione... wake up, love... wake up...”

Struggling against sleep’s powerful languor, she slowly opened her eyes just a slit, hastily shading them against the powerful sunlight, and then a little bit more.

Draco was leaning over her, smiling. “Better let me put some more of this stuff on you. You’re turning into a lobster. Not that I dislike lobster, mind. But there’s a rule: no sun poisoning allowed on holiday.”

Hermione twisted around from her position on her stomach to peer up at him. “Oh yes? I hadn’t heard that. Okay, then, I’m all yours.” And then she added, “Have I got a really bad burn?”

“Nope.” He shook his head as he uncapped the tube of sun block. “You’re just slightly pink and crispy. That’s what you get for not letting me put more of this vile Muggle stuff on you sooner.”

Carefully, he squirted a dollop of the cream into his palm and began spreading it all over her back. She winced slightly, and he lifted his hand momentarily.

“Sorry, darling! I know it hurts.”

For a few moments, they remained in companionable silence as he worked his way down her back. 

“Now _here_ –” He regarded her naked posterior with a mixture of empathy and lust. “Here, it’s a bit worse, sorry to say.”

“Well, that’s because I don’t go round baring my bum in public as a rule!” Hermione snorted. “What about your lily-white arse, then? Bet it’s as red as mine!”

Draco craned his neck to get a look at himself. The only parts of his body he generally covered when out in the strong sun were his bum and his bits, with a comfortable pair of khaki shorts. The rest of him had a fairly healthy tan from so many hours spent outside on digs. Yup. Not surprisingly, his arse was looking rather rosy right now as well.

He nodded with a rueful grin. “Reckon you’ll just have to make sure it’s covered in lotion. Every inch of it,” he added wickedly. “I shall look forward to that. In the meantime, I’m quite enjoying _this_ , I must say...” 

Smoothing some of the cool, creamy lotion over her sinfully round, firm buttocks was creating a chain reaction in his nether regions that was impossible to hide or ignore. Something would have to be done about that very soon. 

His fingers slipped between her buttocks now, stroking the sensitive skin there. Then, moving further down to explore more thoroughly, he worked his fingers between her legs, plunging deep to find slick, wet heat. 

“Mmm, Draco...” she breathed. “That feels lovely. I believe I like nude beaches after all.”

Draco smiled to himself. Brilliant, the way things worked out sometimes. How fortuitous that it was at Andreas and Eleni Papadakos’ home that he and Hermione had finally got together. 

In fact, when they’d abruptly arrived back at the mansion via Underwood’s Portkey, they’d found themselves precisely where they had been when they left: on Draco’s bed. Once there, it had been easy and natural to take things to the next level. The four-poster bed, with its lavishly romantic silken hangings, was large, comfortable, and very inviting. And Draco was not inclined to let Hermione leave his embrace. He’d waited far too long. Not that she’d wanted to go.

Later, to their surprise, they’d discovered that only a few hours of “real” time had passed while they were on Circe’s island. As far as Andreas and his wife knew, their young guests had simply spent the night together in the privacy of Draco’s room, which was neither more nor less than Andreas had expected anyway. 

When they’d emerged the next morning, it was to knowing smiles from their hosts. Hermione couldn’t help blushing, aware of what they must have been thinking; Andreas and Eleni remarked afterwards that they’d never before seen Draco so unabashedly happy. So, some months later, he wasn’t at all surprised when he and Hermione received an open invitation to be guests of the Papadakos family again, either at their Athens home or at their summer house in Crete.

And now, here they were, a magnificent beach house at their disposal, along with a stretch of very private, pristine beach. No prying eyes and nothing to do all day and night but eat lovely food prepared by a most discreet house-elf, drink the most wonderful wines, sun themselves, swim, and make love. 

“Brazen little exhibitionist. Who would have guessed?” he murmured, leaning down to plant a series of tender little kisses on the nape of her neck, her shoulders and down to the small of her back, one of his favourite places. And then he leaned in close to her ear. “Arse up, sweetheart.”

Obediently, Hermione raised herself so that her bum was elevated and her legs spread wide. Ever so carefully, because he didn’t want to cause her any pain, Draco lowered himself onto her, nimble fingers spreading her open, fondling her clit and labia, readying her, and then sliding his full length deep inside her. For a heart-stopping moment, he paused. Then he began to move, striking a steady, rocking rhythm as he drove ever more deeply into her, gripping her shoulders and then her breasts, caressing them and pressing hot, impassioned kisses wherever he could reach.

Hermione closed her eyes and relaxed, losing herself in the delicious sensations this prodigiously talented man was creating with every touch and kiss, every forceful thrust of his cock. Before very long, what had begun as a low-level thrumming teasing her core started to escalate, until she felt close to the brink. Heart pounding and limbs trembling uncontrollably with the unrelenting intensity of the pleasure he was giving her, she felt a guttural scream rising from her belly up into her throat. Finally, when she could take no more, she let go, shrieking the ecstasy of her climax to the skies. On the heels of this, she felt Draco’s orgasm explode inside her in an apparently endless series of powerful contractions that seemed to intensify as he emptied his seed into her.

When he was done, the two of them collapsed onto the blanket, Draco still lying prone over Hermione. He buried his face in her hair, panting, and simply clung to her for several exhausted minutes. Then, his erection subsiding, he slid out of her in a rush of semen, flopping over onto his back, eyes shut tightly. She rolled over as well, and the two of them lay there quietly until their breathing calmed, hands seeking each other and fingers twining together.

“ _Wow..._ ” 

Glancing over at Hermione, who still lay with her eyes shut, her breasts rising and falling as she gradually caught her breath, Draco grinned happily, murmuring his profound agreement. Again, he was struck by life’s ironies and the funny little tricks of fate and circumstance that dictated people’s lives with such whimsy. 

“Happy, love?” he asked now, leaning on one elbow and gazing down at her. 

“Incredibly,” she sighed. “Strange, isn’t it? If you hadn’t manipulated things to get rid of Prewett and get yourself hired on as my assistant-”

“I beg your pardon, Granger! ‘Assistant’ my arse!”

“– _as my assistant_ ,” she continued with a smirk, “we might never have got together. Which means, I suppose, that I should thank you for being your usual sneaky self.” She giggled lightly and gave him a little poke.

“Oi! Watch that! It’s bad form to attack a man with a raging sunburn!”

“You don’t have a raging sunburn,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. “But anyway, thank you. Really. For not giving up on me, even though I was an idiot.”

Draco flashed her a cheeky little grin and chuckled. “Indeed you were, Lovely. After all, I am quite a catch. Galina is plotting your death as we speak.” 

The two of them laughed, and then Hermione reached out and took his hand.

“All joking aside...” Hermione’s expression had become quite serious, her voice very soft. “I really was an idiot, and for a very long time. It used to bother me so much, seeing you with a new woman every week and flirting with anything in a skirt. You said once that you’d really done all that to get my attention. Well, you got my attention, all right. But I never stopped to ask myself why it upset me so much. And I never thought to wonder why you spent so much time trying to chat me up. I just assumed it was you being incorrigible, as always." She gave a rueful little laugh. "The truth is, I was attracted to you and I didn’t want to be. It just seemed so pointless. So I never admitted my feelings, not even to myself. I misjudged you, and that was terribly unfair. Because you really aren’t the person you once were, and I know that. Forgive me?”

Draco took her hands into his and held them firmly. “Listen. For the record, I was a lot worse to you in school than you ever were to me afterwards. You already know how much I regret all that. So I reckon the slate’s clean now, yeah?”

Relieved, Hermione nodded, and they lay back on the blanket, staring up at the large, white clouds moving in a stately procession across the blue canopy overhead.

“Talking about regrets, do you...” Draco began quietly after a few moments’ comfortable silence. “Do you regret what happened last year? I mean, when we got back from Circe’s island.”

“The parchment and Underwood’s journal, you mean. That _was_ hard,” she admitted, the terrible ambivalence she’d felt a year earlier haunting her once again as she remembered. “ _Really_ hard! But honestly, what choice did we have? We _had_ to make sure that Circe could never return. It’s really scary to think what might have happened if we hadn’t destroyed the parchment as well as the journal.”

Draco sat up, gazing out to sea and then down at Hermione, his expression sombre now. “True. But it must have been painful – and still must be for you – knowing you had proof positive in your hands, something invaluable –the find of a lifetime, really – and you had to let it go. See it all go up in smoke.”

Hermione nodded and gave his hand a squeeze. “Yes. Well... I’m just so glad you managed to steal the parchment back from Circe. That was really quite brilliant, you know. If we’d only burnt the journal, I’d always wonder if we’d left a way back for her. She’d have made sure that somebody else found that parchment eventually. It was the parchment all along, really.” Then she gave him a tiny, crooked smile. “I thought Parsifal would have a stroke when we came back with nothing!”

Draco laughed out loud then. “Too right! Reckon he wanted to kill us both on the spot. Lucky for us that the truth of the matter – or at least, part of the truth – is what saved us! I mean, Merlin – a dead body, possible murder victim, and a huge Muggle police investigation! The Ministry doesn’t want to get anywhere near shit like that, not in a million years. Even if the dead chap in question had been one of us. I think Weasley and the rest were just as happy to wash their hands of Porter Underwood. They put it round that he was a Squib, did you know? Load of bollocks.”

“I heard. Easier to discredit him and write him off that way.” Hermione nodded, settling back comfortably against Draco’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her, drawing her very close. She remained quiet for a minute and then let out a giggle. “You really had Parsifal going, didn’t you! Playing up all the drama, the grisly details – murder at the museum, police cordon, the outline of the body on the floor...”

Draco buried his nose in Hermione’s fragrant cloud of hair, nuzzling the back of her neck before replying. “He’d have gone spare if I’d told him all of it. I gave him just enough to get Weasley off his back. That’s really all he wanted. And anyway, I expect we’ll have something legit to give him before too long.”

Startled, Hermione twisted around to look Draco in the face. “What do you mean?”

He gave her a slow, lazy smile. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Must have forgotten. Booked a trip. You and me. You haven’t been on a real dig in a long time, and I’m quite keen to get back out in the field. So I thought, why not? We make a good team. Parsifal said so, and he’s right.”

Hermione regarded him with a quizzical half-smile. “Where to?” she asked slowly.

“Sudan. I’ve had a report of some pretty interesting finds in what was once the ancient Kingdom of Kush. We could get a bit of work done, maybe unearth a present or two for old Algie, and then I thought we might nip up to Cairo for a bit, maybe combine business with a bit of pleasure. There’s a hotel I know of with a quite decadent honeymoon suite, so I’ve heard. What d’you reckon? Sound good?”

“Well, yes, but...” Hermione spluttered. “When is all this happening?”

Draco gazed back at her, straight-faced. “In a fortnight.”

“But... but...” And then two key words jumped out of Draco’s last comment, smacking Hermione in the face. “ _Honeymoon suite?_ What...?”

“Hmm...” he mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully, a playful gleam in his eyes. “I suppose we’d have to be married to take advantage of that, wouldn’t we... Shouldn’t like to be caught out in a lie by the desk clerk... Reckon you’ll just have to marry me, then, and make an honest man of me.” 

He grew serious then, but there was a simmering excitement in his eyes, an intensity like banked fires, as he took her hands in his. “Andreas knows someone who does handfastings. Marry me. Tonight. Right here on the beach. Just us, the sea, and a sky full of stars. Can you imagine anything better in the whole world?”

In truth, Hermione could not.

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter contains a few notes and lots of great story photos! Enjoy! :-)


	9. Notes and Photos

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=eilonwy5.png)

 

 

 

 

**Notes**

 

 

 

Thanks and big hugs to my patient, wise, sharp-eyed beta, bunney. What would I do without you, Krissy? Thanks, too, to the multi-talented xfsista, who made the brilliant banners for this fic. Hugs, Julie! These banners are simply gorgeous and could not be more perfect for this story!

There is a short companion piece to this fic. It's called "Resting in the Tide Pools." When writing it, I imagined Draco and Hermione on the breathtaking island of Crete, newly married, just a few days after he proposed to her at the conclusion of "Pearls After Swine," and a snippet of conversation they might have one morning. http://archiveofourown.org/works/511471#work_endnotes

1\. _Aperire_ (Latin): “disclose, reveal.”

 

1\. _George the Taxi Driver_ : This is a real person! He is well-known for his experience as a driver and for his geniality, thoroughness, and expert knowledge of Athens and Greece as a whole. Not surprisingly, he is very popular with tourists.

http://www.greecetravel.com/taxi/

 

2\. _Empros_ : “hello”

 _Enta’ksi_ : “all right,” “okay”

 

4\. _Circe_ : goddess and witch best known in Homer’s _Odyssey_ for seducing Odysseus and enchanting his crew, turning them all into swine.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Circe

 

5\. _Moly_ : The magical herb that protected Odysseus from Circe’s machinations. It was given to him by his great-grandfather Hermes, who was sent by Athena to protect him.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moly_(herb)

 

6\. _Aeaea_ : Circe’s mythical island, where men were lured and changed into wild animals, and where Odysseus and his men stayed for a whole year on their way back to Ithaca after the Trojan War.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aeaea

 

 

 

  
**Photos**  


 

 

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=xg01ypjmqxanqmay-3.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=emmawatson2_narrowweb__300x3790-1.jpg)  
This recent pic of Tom is exactly how I envisioned Draco in this story. Just imagine his hair loose and brushing his shoulders, not pulled back in a ponytail. This shot of Emma is precisely my image of Hermione as well.

 

 

  
**Anafiotika**  


 

 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=anafiotika-1.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=anafiotika___plaka___athens_28-1.jpg)  


 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=anafiotika___plaka___athens_10-1.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=anafiotika___plaka___athens_9-1.jpg)  


 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=anafiotika.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=anafiotika___plaka___athens_8.jpg)  
The picture on the right shows Mme. Adrasteia’s door

 

 

  
**The Papadakos mansion**  


 

 

I used the Hotel Exis as my model for the very grand Papadakos house in wizarding Athens. In former years, it was a private mansion, but now it is a beautiful, luxurious, and very successful hotel.

 

 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=exteriordaytime-1-1.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=hotelatnight.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=staircasefresco.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=211064.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=2631759-Acropolis-Ami-Boutique-Hotel-Bar-Lounge-9.jpg)  
Draco’s bedroom and its magnificent view of the Acropolis

 

 

  
**The Plaka**  


 

 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=1190597470vx54ZN.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=5732024.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=athens-plaka-1.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=725797245_81df96aed8.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=plaka-1.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=plaka.jpg)  


 

 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=geoama.jpg)  
George the Taxi Driver and his yellow Mercedes

 

 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=800px-Nat_arc_mus_ath_09.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=3402451859_b48b9efaec.jpg)  
National Archaeological Museum, Athens

 

 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=scroll1.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=064_3.jpg)  
Ancient Greek scroll and carving

 

 

  
**The Acropolis**  


 

 

 

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=Athens-Acropolis-Parthenon-Greece.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=acropolis01.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=acropolis_2.jpg)  


 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=The_Acropolis_Greece.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=ACROPOLIS_1-1.jpg)  


  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=800px-Parthenon_from_west.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=odeon.jpg)  
The Parthenon (left); The Odeon (right)

 

 

  
**Circe**  


 

 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=357px-Circe_Offering_the_Cup_to_Odysseus.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=T351Kirke.jpg)  
“Circe Offering the Cup to Odysseus,” by John William Waterhouse (left); “Circe & Odysseus' men,” Athenian red-figure pelike  c. 5th-C. BC, Staatliche Kunstammlungen, Dresden (right)

 

 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=370px-Snowdrop_Galanthus_elwesii.jpg)  
“Moly,” or Snowdrops

 

 

  
**Crete**  


 

 

When Draco and Hermione stayed at the Papadakoses’ summer house in Crete, it was in Falassarna, on the western side of the island, where the sand is said to be the most golden and the crystalline waters the most beautiful of all the Greek islands. It is a very sheltered, secluded spot.

 

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=panoramic-beach-8769750_S-1.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=3858146717_d10f24110f.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=falassarna.jpg) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view&current=agia-roumeli.jpg)  


 


End file.
